


Northern Sky

by littleblackfox, WarlockInTraining



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Angst, Artist Steve Rogers, Fluff, Hecking Requited Love, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, It's requited, M/M, Mutual Pining, Noodle is a Good Boy, Rain, SO MUCH FLUFF, Tender Smuttery, This is basically a Kiki's Delivery Service au, Unrequited Love, Witch Bucky, a LOT of rain, surprise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-05-24 21:56:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 50,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14962908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleblackfox/pseuds/littleblackfox, https://archiveofourown.org/users/WarlockInTraining/pseuds/WarlockInTraining
Summary: Bucky casts around the field, the light rapidly fading as the storm clouds grow denser, swallowing up the weak winter sun. The spirits are here, he can feel them, their amorphous thoughts, panicked and trembling. They can feel his own fear, rising in the back of his throat, fuelling their own terror.Bucky reaches for the chain around his neck, fumbling for his amulets. His fingers close around the two pieces of silver, fine and bright as the scars on his arm.Please. Please keep me safe.





	1. Oak and Ash and Thorn

**Author's Note:**

> Littleblackfox: I am the luckiest Fox, to have had the unbridled joy of working with the amazing [WarlockInTraining](Warlockintraining.tumblr.com) This fic would be nothing without her ideas, enthusiasm, shonking great talent and racoon doodles.  
> Thank you to the ever fabulous trash unicorn Trish, who has saved my ass far too often, and my terrible enabler Jillian, you awful, glorious otter. And thank you to my beta reader [Buhfly](agirlneedsgoals.tumblr.com)  
> Ten thousand thank you's, with flowers and chocolates and crochet sea creatures, to the mods of the RBB. I love you all.
> 
> WarlockInTraining: Here it is, my first RBB collab ! I thank LittleBlackFox from the bottom of my heart, I couldn't have asked for a better partner! She was encouraging and sooo understanding, it was such a blast working with her ! And her story is awesome ! I also thank Loeily who supported my whining and helped me draw <3

In the distance thunder rumbles and the skies darken.  
Bucky tugs at the strap of his bag, anchoring it a little more firmly to his shoulder, and looks up at the bruising clouds overhead.  
_Calm down_ , he chides himself. _It's only thunder._  
Rain starts to fall, a stuttering drip and drizzle like a leaky faucet that batters the wide brim of his hat, and the thunder rolls again. It sounds closer this time, dragged towards him by the wind.  
The fields are bare, the harvest long since brought in for the winter, and the churned earth waits for spring and fresh seed. Bucky keeps walking, his head down, the brim of his hat flapping in the gale. He keeps putting one foot in front of the other as the weather worsens, rain falling in a relentless flow that turns the bare soil under his boots to thick, clinging mud.  
He casts around the field, the light rapidly fading as the storm clouds grow denser, swallowing up the weak winter sun. The spirits are here, he can feel them, their amorphous thoughts, panicked and trembling. They can feel his own fear, rising in the back of his throat, fuelling their own terror.  
Bucky reaches for the chain around his neck, fumbling for his amulets. His fingers close around the two pieces of silver, fine and bright as the scars on his arm.  
_Please. Please keep me safe._  
Bucky’s arm aches, as though his skin remembers the feel of lightning, and it would be so easy to let his thoughts run with the spirits, to panic and cower in the hedges surrounding the field.  
The hedges. Of course. Bucky’s gaze snaps to the borders dividing the fields from the forest beyond, the tall trees twisted with hidden paths and wild magic. A tangle of hawthorn and birch and blackthorn keeps the wild things at bay, guarding the village with their bare branches and sharp spikes. The hedge should be unbroken, surrounding the village, but Bucky can see a gap. He clomps over to the space between the twisted hawthorns and finds a fallen tree half sunk into the dirt. It must have been knocked down in a storm, its roots torn up and its heartwood cracked. It is only by misfortune that it has fallen away from the hedge, leaving a space.  
There is nothing that can be done about it now, so Bucky turns his attention back to the spirits. He can barely see in the downpour, following his senses along the edge of the field until he finds them huddled in the furthest corner. Bucky drags in a deep, unsteady breath, and tamps down on his fear as he walks towards them.

The spirits retreat as he approaches, clambering over each other in their attempts to escape and getting themselves tangled in the hedge. Bucky frowns, if they are harmless they should be able to pass through the branches unharmed, but something is keeping them from in place, closing around them and making them fearful.  
“Shh, it’s alright.” Bucky holds out his hands to the spirits, their large, ephemeral forms like bundles of cotton wool, untouched by the rain.  
Bucky can’t say the same, he’s soaked to the skin and his boots are filling with mud. His hat is so waterlogged that it feels like a weight pressing down on him, the rain on the brim like the sound of a marching drum. He looks over his little flock, checking each one for danger or dischord, and finds them simple, benign forms. They must have encountered sheep at some point, or been sheep once, their shapes are so similar.  
Bucky draws air between his teeth in a frustrated hiss and brushes his wet hair off his face. There must be the bindweed winding through the hedges keeping them trapped. While it keeps baleful spirits from the forest away from the village and the farmlands surrounding it, it does not discriminate between friend and foe like blackthorn and birch do, and harmless sprites and wood-dwellers get caught in its tangled vines.  
It does not grow wild in these parts, so someone must have planted it, no doubt a farmer who didn’t know any better.  
The thunder rolls overhead, and in the distance the sky is lit up by a flash of lightning. Bucky flinches, and the field-spirits flinch with him.  
He rolls up his sleeves and thinks ruefully that there must be a point where you can’t get any wetter, before reaching into the hedge. Thorns scratch his skin, leaving welts along the silvery threads that wind over his left arm, and Bucky draws the spirits towards him.  
“Shhh, easy now, you’re safe. I’ll take care of you,” he soothes them in turn, and looks up at the sky, blinking as water gets into his eyes. There isn’t much time, and he needs to get them to safety.  
“Come on,” he says, drawing them out. “With me, now. Off we go.”

Bucky keeps up the soft chatter, herding the field-spirits ahead of him across the field. The bump and tumble, soft and round and untouched by the wind, while Bucky’s boots sink deeper into the mud and the rain soaks through his clothes, chilling him to the marrow.  
Barton’s farm is on the village border, not far from the forest, and Bucky pushes the herd in that direction. Thunder rolls again and he has no time to panic as the spirits startle, their bodies frizzing up in fear.  
As much as he wants to hurry, to find shelter and cower with the spirits until the storm passes, Bucky doesn’t make them go any faster, they’re nervous enough and likely to scatter.  
The distant skies glow with another crack of lightning, the clouds lighting up from within, and Bucky shivers, his arm flaring up with pain. He rubs it absently, bowing his head against the rain, and coaxes the spirits on.  
When he reaches the low stone walls of the farmyard his knees nearly give way in relief. The field spirits rush forward, bumping and rolling along the hard trampled dirt towards the farmhouse.  
The heavy oak door to the house swings open, and Bucky catches sight of Clint Barton, silhouetted in warm lamplight.  
“What the-” He sees Bucky approaching. “Oh, it’s you. Hullo Mr Witch.”  
Bucky pushes the brim of his hat up, sluicing freezing water down his back and yelping with the shock of it.  
“Hello, Mr Barton.” Bucky rubs his sleeve across his face, and trying to wipe away the rain and getting wetter in the process.  
“What are those things?” Clint points to the spirits rolling around in his yard.  
“Field spirits.” Bucky pulls off his hat and wrings out as much water as he can from it. His bag is no better, half filled with rainwater and torn in several places from the thorns.  
“They look like sheep.”  
“Yeah, well.” Bucky crams the hat back on his head, the point drooping sadly. “They were once, or think they were. They got caught out in the storm and tangled up the the hedges.”  
“Huh.” Clint scratches his chin. “So the hawthorn does keep things out.”  
“And in.” As if to prove his point, Bucky tips his waterlogged bag out, draining the worst of the rainwater onto the wet stone. Leather is good for keeping rain out, but once rain is in, it stays in. “They need a place to shelter until the storm passes.”  
Clint watches the spirits huddle around Bucky’s legs. “Well, they can bunk up in the barn for the night. I’m guessing they don’t eat hay and stuff.”  
Bucky gives him a grateful smile. “They’ll be no trouble, I promise.”  
“Are they good luck or something? Good things to have around?”  
Bucky shrugs. “They’re not bad luck, they just… are.”

“Well, then.” Clint pulls on his boots and thick winter coat before coming out, dragging the farmhouse door closed behind him. Together they herd the spirits into the barn, where they bump and tumble around among the hay bales before settling into a corner.  
Clint nods firmly. “I reckon they can stay, at least until they wanna be somewhere else.”  
“Thank you,” Bucky murmurs. There is another boom of thunder, followed by a crack of lightning right over the barn, and he bites back a whimper.  
“Nasty,” Clint says. “Too nasty to go traipsing about in. Want to come wait it out in the house?”  
“Thank you,” Bucky replies, much more emphatically.  
In no time he finds himself perched on a wooden chair in front of the fire, a cup of coffee warming his hands and a puddle forming on the flagstones under his feet as his soaking clothes drip and steam. His coat is hanging up on the back porch, making its own little puddle along with his bag and muddy boots. His hat sits in front of the fireplace, it’s pointed tip sagging towards the flames.  
Being warm and wet is much more preferable to being cold and wet, though Bucky isn’t looking forward to putting on his damp coat and wet boots and going back outside. He stretches his feet towards the fire, wriggling his sock-covered toes. There’s so much mud embedded in the wool that they’re starting to harden as they dry. 

There is another boom of thunder over the farmhouse, a flash of lightning in the windows, and Bucky flinches, hot coffee sloshing over his hands.  
Clint comes over to join him, pulling up a chair of his own and sitting down heavily, a large mug of coffee in his grip.  
“You settled in alright, over at the cottage?” Clint asks, taking a sizable gulp of coffee. “Heard you did a lot of work on the old place.”  
“A few repairs here and there, yeah. The house had been empty a while.”  
“Never thought I’d see the Witches Cottage in use again. Not been anyone there since I was a kid.” Clint looks at him curiously. “And you’ve got that big glasshouse?”  
“Yes, the greenhouse,” Bucky nods.  
The thunder rolls again and Bucky braces himself for the lightning strike. Maybe Clint is taking pity on him, trying to distract him from the storm. Maybe he is curious, which is no bad thing. Once there was a Witch in every village, but with more and more people moving to the big cities, these quiet little corners of the northern countryside have been forgotten.  
Quiet is what Bucky needs, away from the noise and the crowds, and stumbling upon the cottage, unkempt but still sturdy, and the forest encroaching on the little garden, had felt like a gift, a sanctuary.  
“There are many plants a Witch requires that don’t grow so well outdoors,” Bucky says in a somber tone.  
“Oh-ho?” Clint leans in closer. “Like what? Mandrake? Wolfsbane?”  
Bucky can’t maintain the facade, and lets out a soft chuckle. “Tomatoes, mostly. And cucumbers.”  
Clint lets out a sharp, gleeful laugh and takes another swig of coffee. In truth Bucky does grow some rare, arcane plants for use in spells. But he mostly grows basil and chili peppers. 

Bucky takes a careful sip of coffee, it has neither sugar not cream to make it palatable to his tastes, and he much prefers tea. But it is hot and was given in kindness, so he drinks it slowly while his gaze roams along the pictures displayed on the mantelpiece. There is a painting that takes up most of the chimney breast, a smiling woman and her three children. The scrawled signature is barely legible, but Bucky can just about make out the name Steve. The subject is pleasant enough to look upon, but it’s the brush strokes that catch Bucky’s eye; bold and graceful with a frenetic vitality. The artist has not just caught the likenesses of the people in the painting, but also their energy. The calm, tired woman, the restless boys barely able to keep still, the toddler yawning and half asleep. There is something of Clint in the boys, and it spurs Bucky into speaking.  
“Family?” he asks politely, gesturing to the painting.  
“My sister, Laura.” Clint looks at the painting proudly. “Nat, that’s the little one, will turn five this summer.”  
Bucky smiles. “That’s a good age to be.”  
“The best. I don’t get to see them as much as I’d like, a few days of Midwinter and they come up for the summer.” Clint smiles fondly. “‘Course by summer's end I’m glad to be rid of them.”  
Bucky glances at him. “But it’s not long before you start missing them again.”  
“Aw yeah, so much.” Clint drains his mug. “You’ll probably see Steve, that’s the artist, round and about. He likes to go traipsing through the fields with his easel and whatnot. He’s been away taking care of his mother, but I heard tell in the marketplace that he’s back.”  
Bucky swallows a little more coffee, and wonders if the bitterness is something you get used to, or have to actively enjoy. “I’ll keep a look out for him.”

It is long after sunset when the storm finally passes, leaving endless rain in its wake. Bucky politely turns down Clint’s offer of the spare room for the rest of the night, he has a shop to get back to after all. He pulls on his soggy, squelching boots and his damp, clinging coat before slinging his bag over his shoulder, and heads out into the dark.  
There is no moon or stars to light his way, the sky still covered in a thick layer of cloud. Bucky waits until he is a distance from the farmhouse before working a spell. He claps his hands together, cupping them and slowly and drawing them apart, revealing a ball of softly glowing light. It is no bigger than an apple, and as bright as a candle. Bucky tosses the light up into the air, where it offers enough to illuminate the way, but not so bright it causes a disturbance. The rain does not dim the light, or weigh it down, and it bobs serenely in the air above him.  
Bucky starts walking towards the village, his boots heavy with caked on mud, rain beading on his damp hat and coat. He passes through the village square, silent and deserted. Come the weekend stalls will be set up, come rain or shine, manned by people selling their wares. His cottage is on the far side of the village, and by the time Bucky reaches his front door, he is soaked to the skin again.

He goes inside through the glasshouse, not wanting to trample mud through the shop, and kicks off his boots.  
The last Witch had lived simply, and Bucky sees no need to change that, beyond adding a glasshouse. Downstairs the cottage is divided into two parts. The shop, where Bucky sells his potions and spells, is curtained off from the rest of the house with a heavy green drape. The remaining space is divided between a stockroom, shelves piled high with boxes of useful odds and ends, and the workshop where Bucky spends his time when not running the shop or traipsing through the fields after errant spirits.  
The workshop also has the fireplace, between Bucky’s work desk and the south wall where the greenhouse stands, and that is where Bucky goes.  
He checks the fire and adds a couple of logs from the woodpile, pushing at them with his fingers until they are bedded in place. The flames curl around the fresh logs, and Bucky pulls off his hat and drops it on the hearth to dry, before dragging his chair from the under the desk in front of the fire. He peels off his coat and hangs it over the back of his chair before sitting down, every movement slow and weary.  
Little black soot spirits clamber down from the chimney and wobble onto the grate, bumbling and curious. Bucky sits back in his chair with a sigh, letting his eyes fall closed, and the little spirits keep rolling towards him, leaving a trail of soot along the hearth. They tug at Bucky’s muddy socks and the hem of his trousers, making soft peeping sounds.  
“Hhm?” Bucky cracks open one eye, and the soot spirits bumble over his feet like sleepy wingless bees. “In a minute, just let me catch my breath.”  
He reaches down, and they clamber over his arms, soot mingling with the rainwater on his skin and leaving inky little patterns.  
He should get up. He should go upstairs and take a long, hot shower, and put his clothes in the sink to soak. If he lets them dry out it’ll take forever to wash all the mud out. Instead Bucky yawns and slumps back in his chair, watching the soot spirits rolling around in the fireplace as his eyelids get heavier and heavier.

***

There is a sudden, loud knocking at the door, and Bucky starts awake, nearly falling out of his chair and into the hearth.  
He’s sore all over, his back and his shoulders cramping from the cold and the wet and falling asleep in a chair. His arm still feels prickly and tender, the scars almost bristling at the memory of thunder, and Bucky rubs at them as he yawns. He blinks a couple of times, slowly taking in the morning light coming through the window, and the ashes in the fire that he forgot to rake out the night before.  
The fire has dimmed down to a last few sleepy embers, almost choked by the mound of wood ash underneath it, and Bucky gets slowly to his feet, his body protesting at movement in pops and cracks and aches.  
Someone knocks at the door again, heavy and impatient, and Bucky grimaces. He’s still dressed in last night’s clothes, damp and stiff with mud, and in no state to receive customers. All the same, he walks over to the doorway leading to the shop, and pulls back the drape. There’s someone still out there, shifting impatiently on the doorstep.  
“Just a minute, please!” Bucky shouts, and lets the drape fall closed.  
He walks over to the fire and fetches the poker from it’s stand on the hearth, raking down the coals and pulling open the damper. He is fetching his pan and brush to sweep up the ashes when his impatient customer hammers at the door again. _Rat-a-tat_.  
“I said just a minute!” Bucky shouts, irritation curling around his words.  
Another _rat-a-tat_ is all he gets in reply, and Bucky swears under his breath.  
“Fine.” he hisses, and puts the pan full of ashes down on the hearth. He throws a couple of logs on the fire and grabs his hat, damp and smelling of woodsmoke, and shoves it on his head as he stalks out to the shop. His hands are coated in a fine layer of ash, and rubbing them on his trousers only succeeds in covering them in muddy ash.  
The customer bangs on the door again, and Bucky flicks back the lock before throwing the door open.

Bucky catches the man mid-knock, and takes the briefest bit of pleasure at seeing him freeze, his hand raised to hit the door, his eyes wide.  
He is tall and broad, maybe a year or so younger than Bucky, it’s hard to tell with the scruffy, honey-blonde beard. He stares at Bucky, who manages a passable smile. “Can I help you?”  
“You’re the new Witch,” the man blurts out.  
Sheer willpower keeps Bucky’s smile fixed in place. “Been a Witch a long time, but I guess I’m new here, yes.”  
The man stares at him, his arm still raised to knock on the door, hand slowly unclenching from its loose fist.  
“I thought…” He lowers his hand. “I thought you’d be…”  
“A girl?” Bucky snorts, because where ever you go, village or city, some thing never change. He looks down at himself, in his muddy socks and damp clothes and crooked hat, then back at the man, a challenge in his gaze.  
“Younger.” The man says. He blushes and tucks both his hands behind his back.  
Bucky takes a step back, and with a sweep of his arm invites the man into his shop. “Come on, you’re letting in the cold.”

His mother must have instilled some manners into him, as the man shuffles into the shop, edging to one side so Bucky can push the door closed. He looks around curiously, taking in the shelves stacked with books and bottles, the cluttered counter and the potted plants.  
“I’ve never been in one of these before,” he murmurs, walking over to one of the shelves and bending down to peer at spirits slumbering in their bottles and jars.  
Bucky hums noncommittally, tugging at his sleeves. His clothes are damp and uncomfortable, and cling to his chilled skin. The man straightens up, catching sight of a lemon yellow bundle on a higher shelf.  
“Is this one of your spirits?” he asks, and prods the tangle of scales.  
“Don’t touch him,” Bucky frowns. “That’s Noodle.”  
The man opens his mouth to ask a question, and lets out a shriek as a diamond-shaped head rises up from the tangle on a long, sinuous neck.  
“A snake!” he yells.  
“Yes, a snake,” Bucky agrees, reaching over to pick Noodle up. The snake curls around his arm, his tongue flicking out in the man’s direction  
“You have a snake on the loose in your shop?” The man looks aghast. “What if it hurts someone?”  
“Noodle? Noodle is perfectly safe.” Bucky holds the snake close, letting him climb onto his shoulders. “Unless you’re a mouse. Or a blue pencil. The mice I understand, but I don’t know what he has against pencils.”  
The man looks uneasy but seems to take Bucky at his word. Watching with interest as Bucky strokes the snakes body in light, delicate touches. Bucky smiles, calm and reassuring, and Noodle flicks out his tongue again, curling around Bucky’s shoulders.

The man side steps away from Bucky and his snake, putting distance between them. He moves cautiously, walking over to look at some shambles hanging in a corner of the room. Loose constructions of thread and seemingly random objects, they hang like windchimes, and the man taps the edge of one, watching as it spins slowly. Bucky carries Noodle over to the counter, his ledger still open from his orders the previous day, and takes a second look at him.  
A Witch knows never to trust their first impressions, for only a fool trusts their instincts. Instincts are panicky, snap reactions, forged in the gut in an instant and hard to get rid of once they’ve taken root. A second impression forms a little more slowly, and Bucky takes in the nervous way he scrubs at his beard, the lines around his eyes.  
Sorrow weighs down the man’s limbs, makes his movements slow and awkward.  
_He doesn’t want to be here, but he’s desperate._  
Bucky sighs inwardly. The guy needs help, but has no idea how to ask, or what to even ask for. The rounded shape of his shoulders, the dark smudges under his eyes, call out help me and, as a Witch, Bucky can only answer.

“How can I help you?” Bucky comes straight out with it. “I take it you’re not here out of curiosity.”  
The man is fiddling with a ribbon-wrapped bar of soap, and fumbles it, almost dropping it to the floor. He catches it in time, and puts it back on the shelf with the others with exaggerated care, like he doesn’t trust his own body to not just knock the whole display over.  
“Yes,” He says abruptly, wiping his hands on his thighs. “Yes, I…” The man hesitates, licking his lips. “I’m looking for an… an _oo-ee-jah_ board?”  
Bucky frowns, moving further behind the counter. He instinctively pulls Noodle closer. “You want a Ouija Board?”  
“Is that how you say it?” the man asks. “Do you have one?”  
Bucky’s mouth draws into a hard line, and he shakes his head. “That is dark magic, and not for the likes of you.”  
The man’s expression clouds over, all attempts of politeness gone. “What the hell do you mean by that?”  
He walks towards Bucky, who stands his ground, his expression grim.  
Bucky has Spirit Boards, _Ouija_ Boards, stacked up on a high shelf in his storeroom where foolish hands can’t reach. They are simple enough to make, a flat piece of wood or stone clearly marked with an alphabet, numbers, and the words ‘yes’ ‘no’ and ‘goodbye’. A glass or planchette placed on the surface can be moved by spirits in response to questions.  
No good has ever come from meddling with a Ouija Board, the spirits that flock to them baneful and cruel.  
Bucky takes a third look at the man; his chin raised, his hands clenched into fists. An idiot like him, his spirit worn down and his heart broken into pieces, would stand little chance against a harmful spirit. It would weave itself into the cracks in his heart, turn it brittle and cold. Already there are wraiths twisting around him, like cobwebs in the sunlight, feeding off the grief that weighs so heavily upon him.  
“You would speak with the dead?” Bucky asks cautiously.  
“Yes!” the man says emphatically, with no shred of doubt or caution.  
“I don’t do that,” Bucky shakes his head. “I _won’t_ do that.”  
“What the-” The man seems to catch himself before he starts cursing, but Bucky can already feel the air in the room souring, the wraiths circling around them. “I came here for help, that’s what Witches are supposed to do, isn’t it? Help?”  
His voice rises, anger twining around his words, trying to smother the fear hidden behind them.  
“I can help,” Bucky promises. “But not like that.”  
“You think a bar of soap is going to help me?” The man’s voice rattles the bottles on the shelves, startling the spirits within, awake and uneasy in the presence of malevolents.  
“Well there’s certainly something about you that stinks.” Bucky regrets the words almost as soon as they’re out of his mouth. The words aren’t his own, they are the wraiths. They must be stronger than they look, feeding off the man’s heartache and sowing conflict.  
The spirits in their bottles tremble, disturbed by the fighting. The more pernicious ones start rattling the glass, drawn to the wraiths and the bitterness they bring.  
“What good is a Witch who won’t do their damn job?” the man hisses, slapping his hand down on the counter between them.

Bucky looks down at his hand until the man withdraws it. He looks ashamed, but desperate, and Bucky sees him warring with his own self. He is not a Witch, he cannot see the wraiths, but he must feel the traces of them in his actions, wonder why he’s behaving the way he does.  
“There are other ways I can help.” Bucky keeps his voice calm, as much to soothe the man as the spirits on his shelves. “But I will not let you have a Spirit Board, nor should you put your trust in any Witch that would.”  
“But I need it,” the man says, his voice catching. “I need _her_.”  
Bucky reaches out across the counter, an abortive little gesture that the man flinches away from. He curls his fingers, retreating, but does not pull away completely.  
“Leave the dead to their rest,” Bucky says softly. “You’ll only bring sorrow calling them back.”  
The man bows his head, his anger suddenly gone, and he crumples in on himself as though it were the only thing keeping him on his feet.  
“I miss her.”  
His voice is pitched so low that Bucky can barely catch what he says, but the sound of it makes his heart ache. Bucky reaches into the center of himself and pulls, curling a shining golden thread around his fingers, slender as spider’s silk.  
“That is the cost of living,” he says gently, reaching out to touch the man’s shoulder.  
The spell is small, barely noticeable, but he lets the thread catch and wrap around the man’s bruised soul. “And they are never really lost to us, not while we remember them.”  
The man sniffs and scrubs his hands across his face. Before Bucky can do anything more, he turns and hurries out of the shop, the door swinging closed behind him.  
Bucky leans heavily against the counter, and looks over at the spirits moving fretfully in their bottles.  
“Fuck.”

After several minutes of watching the door, it doesn’t seem like the man is coming back. Bucky heaves a sigh, rubbing his thumb against his aching scars, and gets on with his morning.  
He puts Noodle back on the shelf, and quiets down the restless spirits before going back to the workshop to finish sweeping out the grate. He takes the ash out to the little herb garden on the north side of the cottage and scatters them around the fruit trees.  
The cottage sits at the edge of the forest, some would say it is the border between the wilderness and civilisation, though Bucky is wary of such rigid distinctions. What use is civilisation without a little wild? Without flowers that grow in the cracks between stones.  
He straightens up, rubbing the small of his back, and hears the sounds of rustling in the undergrowth. With a smile Bucky crouches down among the raised beds, the soil bare in the cold winter but for the stands of rosemary and sage, the tall spikes of lavender. A racoon comes trotting through the undergrowth, it’s loyal spirits close behind.  
“Good morning, Cinnamon,” Bucky murmurs as the racoon comes closer, sniffing the air in search of treats. “I’m sorry, I’ve got nothing to eat.”  
The racoon sniffs around him a little longer, checking Bucky's pockets for snacks. Bucky chuckles, stroking her soft, grey fur as she passes, and the spirits come tumbling over to join in.  
Bucky has no idea what they were originally, forest spirits of one sort or other, but they try to be racoons. The shape of them is fairly close, maybe, if you had poor eyesight. A smudge of grey with bright black eyes and round, rolling bodies.  
Cinnamon pushes her pointed snout into Bucky’s hand, her nose tickling.  
“Alright, alright,” Bucky laughs. He’s not eaten since yesterday, and there are few things that can’t be improved by a cup of tea and a slice of toast. “Let’s get some breakfast.”

***

The knock at the door is so light, so hesitant, that Bucky almost misses it.  
He’s hunched over his work desk, a jewellers eyeglass screwed up against his right eye. He has to squint, scrunching up his face, to keep it in place. The fire beside him is banked low to keep from disturbing the air, the coals in the grate amber and cherry red. A spirit light, no bigger than a walnut and fixed to the desk with a stem of green willow, shines on Bucky’s hands as he works.  
He holds his breath as he carefully picks up a tiny little air spirit with a pair of tweezers. The spirit could pass for a dandelion seed, a delicate little tuft of down on a spindly stem, and the slightest breath will blow it away.  
It’s thready little filaments glow in the warm light, and Bucky gently tucks the spirit into a glass bottle no bigger than the end of his little finger. He quickly seals it closed with a fragment of cork and turns the bottle around in his hand, watching the spirit drift peacefully within. When he’s satisfied that it is happy and comfortable, takes out the jewellers glass and puts it on the desk.  
With a pass of his hand the spirit light fades, and he sits back, rubbing his eye with the heel of his hand. He finally notices Noodle, who had been asleep on his shoulders while he worked, staring towards the shop.  
“What is it, Noodle?” Bucky asks. “Have we got a customer?”  
Noodle flicks his tongue out, and Bucky gets up from his chair, still rubbing his eye as he goes to answer the door.  
The man from a few days before, the one with the grief-wraiths, looks up from the doorstep. He’s holding a notebook in one hand, and is midway through scrawling a message on it. Bucky catches the words ‘apologies’ and ‘November’ before the man quickly closes the notebook and shoves it in his bag.  
“You’re here!” Words tumble out of the man’s mouth. “I wasn’t sure, and I wanted to just-” He stops short, and gives Bucky an apologetic smile. “Can I come in?”  
Bucky catches himself before he makes a cutting remark about needing soap after all. The wraiths are still around him, feeding dischord, and the spell Bucky had slipped onto him hadn’t been enough to get rid of them. He steps to the side, and gives the man an encouraging smile.  
“Come in.”

The man doesn’t wander around looking at the items for sale this time, just stands in the middle of the shop floor, holding onto his bag. He gives Noodle a wary glance, and the snake flicks his tongue out again, tasting the bitter taint of wraith around him.  
Bucky untangles Noodle from around his shoulders, and lifts him up onto a shelf, settling him down between the bottles and jars.  
Bucky takes longer than he would usually, making sure the snake is comfortable and giving the man a moment to gather himself before speaking. “How can I help?”  
“I. Uh.” The man flushes pink around the ears. “I wanted to apologise. I wasn’t in a… good place… and I should never have spoken to you the way I did.”  
Bucky turns to face him, eyes widening in surprise. He had expected the man to ask for something, a little part of him had even feared the man had come back to cause more trouble. He hadn’t expected an apology.  
The man hunches his shoulders, as if he could look smaller. “Are you going to turn me into a frog?”  
The laugh that bursts out of Bucky’s throat startles them both, and he claps his hand over his mouth, something bright and effervescent fizzing in his chest.  
“No,” Bucky shakes his head, speaking between his splayed fingers. “I’m not going to turn you into a frog. I wouldn’t even know how.”  
“Oh. Well, that’s a relief.” The man’s mouth crooks up a little. “Do you have a broomstick?”  
“I prefer to walk.”  
In truth, Bucky hates flying. The few times he has were spent with his knees clamped against the broom, trying desperately to not throw up. Again. There are still geese down by the coast where he trained that honk and charge whenever they see him.

The man shifts from foot to foot, opening and closing his mouth a few times, as though it would loosen the words stuck in his throat.  
“You lost someone,” Bucky says gently. “Someone close to you.”  
“Are you a fortune teller?” the man asks, an edge of bitterness seeping into his words.  
“Not even slightly,” Bucky replies. There is a lot more that he wants to say, warnings that he is in danger, promises that it won’t always hurt. But he holds his tongue and waits until the man says his piece.  
“I have a croft down by the river.” The man gestures to the door. Bucky knows the river he refers to, deep and fast moving, it skims the edge of the forest before turning west to the coast. “Do you know the village?”  
“I came here in the summer,” Bucky tells him. “Gotten to know the place well enough.”  
“Ah.” He shifts a little more, awkward and uncomfortable. “I’ve been away a while, taking care of my mother. She lives… lived in the city.” He stops, chewing his lip.  
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Bucky says with sincerity.  
_November_ the note had said. November, a month of darkness and bone-chilling cold, a bad time to be hurting.  
“Thank you,” the man mutters, but it’s said automatically, like a call-and-return song, the meaning behind it dulled with overuse.  
“Let me help you.” Bucky takes a cautious step towards him, and the man’s head snaps up.  
“What? No!” He shakes his head emphatically. “I’m fine, I don’t need any help.”  
“Yes, you do,” Bucky says firmly.  
That only makes him dig in his heels. “I know you mean well, but I can manage on my own.”  
“You stubborn old goat,” Bucky doesn’t know if he should laugh or snarl. “You don’t have to.”  
“I said I’m _fine_.” The man clenches his teeth, squaring up for a fight.  
“Oh for-” Bucky stalks forward, grabbing a bottle from one of the shelves. It is filled with a pale green powder, a blend of herbs that he painstakingly dried and ground down, rubbing the mixture through finer and finer sieves until it was like flour. He uncorks the bottle and tips a handful into his open palm, and throws the fine green powder over the man's head. “ _Look_.”

The man flinches, his arms coming up to cover his face. Bucky points up, his fingers coated in herb dust, and the man slowly looks up.  
Hovering above him are three diaphanous green shapes. “What the hell are those?” the man yells. “Did you put a curse on me?!”  
“Does this look like a curse?” Bucky holds out the jar. “It’s mostly rosemary.”  
He gives the jar a shake, and a little cloud of fragrant powder wafts up.  
The man looks back up at the shapes hovering over him, slowly disappearing from his sight as the powder disperses. “Did someone else curse me?”  
“Only you, after a fashion,” Bucky sighs. “They’re wraiths. They’re drawn to sorrow, to conflict, they feed off it.”  
The man pales, and takes a step back, but the wraiths drift after him. He doesn’t panic, and that catches Bucky’s attention. Instead he looks back at Bucky, his jaw set, his expression determined. “How do I get rid of them?”  
Bucky hesitates. If he offers to do it, he will only dig in his heels and insist on doing it himself. But spells take time, time he doesn’t have.  
“I’ll teach you,” Bucky says instead. “But it will take time, protection magic needs the light of the full moon. You need to come back then.”  
The man looks up at the fading shapes again. “That’s weeks away,” he says quietly.  
Bucky doesn’t think about it, just reaches for his neck and grasps the amulets hanging there. He pulls the chain over his head, gritting his teeth as it catches on a few strands of his hair.  
“Here,” he holds out the chain, the silver tags swinging gently back and forth. “You can borrow these until you have your own.”

The man pauses, then reaches out, his fingers brushing against Bucky’s as he takes the chain and pulls it over his head, the silver pieces resting against his chest.  
Above him the wraiths twist and shudder, before vanishing with a faint, echoing wail.  
“Are they gone?” the man asks, searching the ceiling for signs of them.  
Bucky tips another pile of herbal powder into his hand and throws it up into the air. It forms a hazy green cloud that quickly disperses, leaving a fine layer of dust on them both, and making Bucky’s hat look like it is encrusted with moss.  
Already the man looks taller, lighter, as though the weight of the world isn’t crushing him into the dirt.  
“As long as you wear them they’ll not return,” Bucky tells him  
The man looks down at the tags, curling his hands around them carefully.  
“Don’t take them off,” Bucky points to the tags cradled in his hand. “Not in the shower and definitely not when you go to sleep at night.”  
“I won’t,” the man promises. “And I come back on the next full moon? You’ll show me how to make my own?”  
“That’s right,” Bucky nods. “Be here an hour before sunset.”  
“Okay.” He smiles, small and fragile, his fingers tracing the markings on the amulets. “Thank you…”  
“Bucky. Call me Bucky.”  
“Okay. Bucky.” The man remembers his manners again, and holds out his hand. “I’m Steve.”  
_The artist_. Bucky remembers the painting in the Barton farm, the bold brush strokes and restless energy, and has a sudden, horrible inkling of how much the wraiths have taken from him.  
He reaches out to take Steve’s hand, feeling a tremor run through his scars, like a memory of lightning.


	2. Miscreants and Inklings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There’s something in the chimney,” Steve murmurs. “I just saw it move.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as always, to Trish and Jillian, and to Buhfly for kicking the grammar into shape, even when the grammar kicked back XD
> 
> You can find us on tumblr! [Littleblackfox](http://thelittleblackfox.tumblr.com) [WarlockInTraining](http://warlockintraining.tumblr.com)

With the weekend comes Market day, and the village square is bustling with activity, as though every soul from the forest to the sea is in attendance.  
Bucky hitches his bag a little higher up his shoulder, and figures that it’s probably the case. The winter has finally passed, and the warmer weather has brought spring showers that leave the fields waterlogged and the river close to bursting its banks. But people are out on the streets, making the most of the first days of spring.  
The branches of the oak tree in the center of the square are bare, but the first buds of new growth are forming on the branches. The cobbles are still damp underfoot from rain the night before, the stones darkened and slippery as Bucky makes his way through the crowds. People stop him every few paces, making conversation and tentative enquiries about his services. Bucky takes time for each one, nodding and smiling. _Yes, the weather is nice_ and _Of course, come by the shop_ and _No, I don’t have my snake today_ fall from his lips again and again.  
Really, it will be a miracle if there’s any bread left at the baker’s stall by the time he gets to it, but Bucky doesn’t begrudge them their interest. A Witch is still something of a novelty in the village, and after a long winter of being cooped up indoors, people are seeking out entertainment. By the time Bucky reaches the first of the stalls, he has filled his diary with appointments for the next week and been invited for more tea than could fill a bathtub.  
There are some people who don’t dare approach him yet, those who have a lingering mistrust of Witches brought about by old fairy tales, or an innate distrust of anything new or different. A handful of children follow him around, keeping at what they think is a safe distance while he talks to the villagers, but Bucky pays them no mind. There are two that catch his eye; a brother and sister, and twins by the look of them. Old enough to find the term ‘child’ distasteful, too young to bear the shadows that follow them.  
They are not wraiths, not yet, and Bucky keeps a watchful eye on the pair.

The Market fills the entire village square, surrounding the oak tree and spilling out onto the crossroads, winding down little side streets. The wooden stalls of the main market are arranged in a rough square on the cobblestones, the middle filled with people gossiping and showing each other their purchases. A few handcarts around the courtyard are selling hot pies and small beer, and the people mill around them, chattering loudly.  
Bucky’s stomach growls at the smell of hot, buttery pastry, and he debates buying a pie before making his way around the stalls. A glance over at the cart reveals more people keen on talking to the new Witch, and Bucky combs his fingers through his hair before walking over.  
He has smiled so much this morning that his cheeks are starting to ache, but he nods and listens as the other customers, their pies long since eaten, tell him about the forthcoming spring celebrations. Someone volunteers Bucky into decorating the square for the festivities, taking his politely confused smile as assent. He has to explain hurriedly that fireworks are not a part of his skillset before they get carried away, but promises to make a fine display of the marketplace.  
The pie seller, a thin, gregarious man named Dernier, takes pity on him. He pushes a paper wrapped mushroom pie into his hands and whispers that Bucky should get over to the greengrocers stall, unless he plans on eating nothing but potatoes and fibrous old pony carrots for the next week. The other customers nod and mumble in agreement, and Bucky gives him a grateful smile before slipping away, tucking the pie into his bag to keep warm.

Just as Bucky was warned, Dugan the grocer’s stall seems to be the first to sell out of all his produce, closely followed by the bakers. Bucky looks over the remnants on display before deciding on a bag of potatoes and some of the last of the apples stored over winter. At least there are plenty of dried goods left. Dugan, a large, kindly man with a gingery mustache and a battered bowler hat, fills paper bags with lentils and barley, twisting them closed with a flick of his wrist before putting them in a box with his vegetables. He offers to keep hold of the box until Bucky has finished the rest of his shopping, and asks for Bucky’s name, scrawling it on the side in pencil before putting it under the stall with several other that have been set aside.  
His name, Barnes, not ‘Witch’ or ‘Warlock’. Bucky finds himself unexpectedly touched by that small, _humanising_ gesture, and draws his hand across the wooden frontage of the stall. His fingers trace a simple spell, a twisted curl of shapes and letters, to bring good fortune his way. A kindness for a kindness, Bucky would call it. He thanks Dugan again before going off in search of bread.

Jones the Baker calls out a greeting to Bucky as he approaches, but his stall is even more depleted as the grocers was. Jones winks and shows him a small loaf of bread that he’d set aside, and Bucky thanks him profusely.  
Jones had been one of his first customers when he had arrived in the village. Bucky had found a fire spirit languishing in the depths of a hollow log, and had taken it to the baker, introducing himself and suggesting that a bakers oven might be a good home for it. Since then none of Jones’ loaves ever burned, and he told every customer he had that it was down to the new Witch. The village had warmed quickly to Bucky’s presence after that.  
Bucky also buys one of the last bags of scones, studded with dried berries and dusted with sugar. They are a little bit of an indulgence, but it’s full moon tomorrow, and he wants to be able to offer something with tea.  
Bucky pauses, scanning the crowd for a familiar face.  
Bucky is not exactly _looking_ for Steve. Maybe he keeps half an eye out for blond-haired, blue-eyed stubborn idiots wandering around the market, but that’s not the same thing.  
In the weeks since their first, awkward meetings they haven’t seen or spoken to each other, not even once. Bucky has occasionally glimpsed him; across the far side of a field when he’s been called out to attend to a wayward spirit, or on the banks of the river while Bucky paddled in the shallows looking for hagstones.  
Even though he hasn’t had the chance to talk to him, Bucky is in no doubt that he will show up for their meeting.  
Bucky pauses, looking around the stalls. _So why is he worried?_  
He’s concerned, yes, but not because he doubts the efficacy of his amulets. Steve came dangerously close to wasting away, and _no one noticed._  
He doesn’t blame the villagers, the cold, harsh winter had everyone hunkering down, and even though they have only spent a short time together Bucky can tell Steve is the kind of person to reject help until people stop offering.  
Well, Bucky won’t stop offering, and however stubborn Steve may be, however proud, he’ll just have to get used to it.  
Bucky sighs, shifting his bag into a more comfortable position, and goes in search of Shuri.

Witches usually work in isolation, having little contact with others. There are no schools for Witchcraft, no magical academies, and Bucky learned the craft the way most others did, as the apprentice of an established Witch. Sooner or later Bucky will need to take on an apprentice of his own, now that he’s settled.  
He has heard of Wildcrafters, those who learn intuitively, following the guidance of powerful spirits and forces. He suspects that there is one living in the forest, a Woodsman from what the spirits tell him.  
And there are others like Shuri. Every Witch has an affinity for some element, some force of nature; be it wind or herbs, rivers or stone, it is the foundation of their magic. Bucky works with spirits, though he was trained by an herbalist. Shuri makes her magic from fallings stars.  
From what Bucky can tell, she began her training with an elder Witch, but had little interest in living out her days in a Witches cottage treating rheumatism and securing the borders. When her training was complete she took to the road, travelling back and forth across the land, searching for isipho - the remnants of fallen stars to work her spells.  
It is powerful magic, dangerous magic, but she wields it with grace.

“Hey Barnes!”  
Bucky grins, ducking around the back of the stall and under the heavy, brightly patterned covering that shelters from the spring rain.  
Shuri greets him with a wicked grin and open arms, and Bucky scoops her up into a hug, lifting her up into the air.  
“Hey, careful!” she laughs. “You’ll ruin my jacket.”  
Bucky gives her a last squeeze before letting go, setting her gently down on the floor again. Shuri brushes an imaginary speck of dirt off the front of her jacket, and maybe a little bit of actual mud.  
“Look at the state of you!” Shuri tugs the sleeve of Bucky’s coat. “You look like a Woodsman. You have _twigs_ in your hair.”  
“I do not!” Bucky grouses, running a hand through his hair just in case. Okay, so maybe there are a couple of leaves in there.  
Shuri somehow manages to look flawless, whether in the city or sleeping in a caravan. Her white jacket compliments the spells drawn on her face, evenly spaced dots that curve around her bright eyes and radiate across her brow. Bucky feels plain in comparison, but he likes being plain.  
Shuri clasps her hands together. “What did you bring me, hmm?”  
“Little magpie,” Bucky mutters fondly, and reaches into his bag. He pulls out a bundle of cloth and hands it over, and Shuri lets out and excited little squeal and grabs it, laying it down on a corner of her stall, away from the spirit-houses and shambles, and carefully unwraps it.  
Bucky doesn’t pretend to have a tenth of her talent when it comes to isipho, but when walking the fields or following the river he keeps his eyes open for strange stones that don’t belong. He drops them into his pocket, and saves them for market day.  
Shuri studies each stone carefully, lifting them up to the light. She puts aside the ones that look like corals, strangely porous and far lighter than a stone has any right to be, and settles on what’s left. Denser, darker stones, with warped, amorphous surfaces like flowing water frozen in a single moment in time. She presses her thumb to the curves and hollows, listening to the song that each one has to sing.

While Shuri tends to the stones, Bucky takes a moment to look over her stall.  
Isipho is a powerful stone, used in everything from curse breaking to healing. Strong enough be formed into nails and hammered through wood and stone to create a protective shield, delicate enough to spin into fine threads and woven into clothing. Laid out on the stall are all the things she has made with her fallen stars; beaded bracelets for healing and pendants shaped like claws for protection, shambles and blankets, but it is the spirit-houses that Bucky loves.  
Some are no bigger than a thimble, others large enough for a person to shelter in. Delicate latticework and filigree that catch the light and shine like the moon. Bucky pauses at one in particular, a sphere that fits neatly in the palm of his hand. It reminds him of lace, of frost-covered leaves, and he turns it around with careful fingers, admiring the detail and shape of the spell.  
“Got your eye on something?” Shuri whispers in his ear, and Bucky yelps, startled, nearly fumbling the spell.  
“Oak and ash, girl, don’t sneak up on me!” he scolds, but Shuri only laughs, lifting the spirit-house out of his hands.  
“You like it?” she asks. “It draws moon spirits, little ones, no one needs a howling wolf traipsing around their borders. Moths, little flutters of the heart, or owls for wisdom and those moments of clarity in the darkness.” She gives him a sly look. “A perfect gift for a sweetheart.”  
“I don’t have a sweetheart,” Bucky growls, turning away.  
“Hmmm. Sure you don’t.” Shuri passes the spirit-house from hand to hand idly. “C’mon, you can tell me.”  
“I don’t have a sweetheart,” Bucky insists. “I do know someone who’s in serious need of common sense.”  
“Ah, now we’re getting somewhere.” Shuri reaches under the counter, where she keeps a stack of drawstring bags for her sales. “You’ve got yourself a project, a boy who needs fixing.”  
“No I don’t,” Bucky mumbles.  
“Yes you do.” Shuri puts the spirit house in the bag and pulls the string closed. “It’s who you are, it’s what you do. You find broken people and you fix them. Just don’t go tearing off bits and pieces of yourself to patch them up with.”  
Bucky touches the space at his throat where the tags used to rest. “Might be a little late with that.”  
She could scold him. She could call him and idiot and tell him to undo what he’s done, but instead Shuri holds out that bag. “Here.”  
“Shuri, I can’t take that,” Bucky shakes his head.  
“Yes, you can.” Shuri puts the pouch in his bag for him, her expression daring him to argue. “Consider it trade for my rocks.  
Bucky kisses her on the cheek. “Thank you, little magpie.”  
Shuri huffs, and reaches back under the counter, retrieving two flat, squared pieces of isipho. “These are for your broken boy too, right?”  
Bucky nods, his mouth twisting into a rueful smile. “You know me too well.”  
“Just be careful, okay?” She drops the pieces into his hand. “Don’t give everything away.”  
Bucky doesn’t answer, slipping the pieces into his pocket, cold and bright as moonlight.

Shuri’s words stay with Bucky as he walks around the rest of the market. He nods and smiles at the stallholders, picking up a few odds and ends here and there before they pack up for the day.  
The crowds slowly disperse, until there are only a handful left, taking a last wander around the stalls and haggling over the prices.  
Bucky pulls his notebook out of his bag and makes a rough sketch of the square. He has no idea what to do for the Spring Celebrations, and hopes that it will jog something, give him an idea.  
When he sees Dugan starting to pack up, he puts the book back in his bag, and walks over to greet him.  
“Mr Barnes,” Dugan pulls on the brim of his hat. “Find any bargains?”  
“One or two,” Bucky smiles, shifting the weight of his bag onto his hip.  
“I hear you’ve been drafted into decorating the square.” Dugan folds down the top of a half-empty sack of potatoes and hefts it into his waiting cart. “You poor sod.”  
“Drafted sounds about right,” Bucky says ruefully. “Any suggestions?”  
“The little ones like an egg hunt.” Dugan’s eyes crinkle up. “Especially if there’s a few chocolates to be found.”  
Bucky hums thoughtfully, watching the last of the traders packing up around them. The twins he saw earlier are helping with stalls, the boy rushing around with boxes and crates while the girl takes down the frames.  
“Who are they?” Bucky asks quietly. “I’ve not seen them around the village much.”  
“Ah, the Maximoff twins.” Dugan sucks air between his teeth. “Bad business all round.”  
“Bad business?” Bucky asks.  
“They came to the village a few years back, their father was a shepherd for the Carter farm. You know Miss Carter?”  
Bucky shakes his head. “Not yet.”  
“You’ll see her at the Spring Festival, no doubt.” Dugan puts a bag of onions into his cart before continuing. “The father got caught out in a winter storm, by the time he made it back to the village he was half frozen. Got sick and couldn’t shake it. Miss Carter let the kids stay in the shepherd's cottage, since they didn’t have no other family.”  
“And work?”  
Dugan shrugs. “There’s no shortage of work come harvest time. Other than that, they seem to manage.” Dugan gives Bucky a sideways look. “What’s on your mind, Mr Witch?”  
Bucky chews on the inside of his cheek. “Everything and nothing, Mr Dugan.”  
“Well, I can’t stand here all day gasbagging,” Dugan huffs, dragging the reserved box of groceries out from under the stall and dropping it on the counter. “I think you’ll find everything in order.”  
The potatoes, apples and bags of dried goods are where he left them. There are also several carrots and a frizzy head of purple cabbage.  
Bucky opens his mouth to argue, but Dugan turns away, and resumes packing up the last of his produce.  
“Thank you,” Bucky says, loud enough for him to hear. He picks up the box, smiling at Dugan’s grunt in response, and starts the long walk home.

***

The full moon has always put Bucky on edge, the moonlight fizzing in his veins, making him restless. But for some reason he can’t fathom this time he feels like he’s going to vibrate out of his skin.  
He’s rearranged the shelves in the shop twice, and would have done a third time but whenever he reaches for something, to maybe move the books to a lower shelf or the spirit bottles on the top shelf, Noodle hisses at him. Bucky clenches and unclenches his fists, watching as Noodle twists up into an angry yellow tangle, and goes back into the workshop.  
The desk is already tidied, and the bookshelf under the stairs has been rearranged repeatedly, firstly by size, then colour, and eventually subject before Bucky finally leaves it alone.  
He can’t seem to settle, restless in his own skin. He tries catching up on his reading, but stares at the page, taking nothing in, before slamming the book closed and putting it back on the shelf. It’s still hours before Steve is supposed to arrive, and Bucky already has all his tools readied and arranged on the counter, so he decides to tidy up the stockroom.  
If the shop is Bucky’s public persona (eclectic, but relatively clean and organised) and the workshop is his devotion to the craft (cosy, cluttered, full of books and where he spends the majority of his time), then he doesn’t dare guess what the stockroom represents.  
It had been tidy once, maybe for the first hour he moved in, when it was still full of spiderwebs and there is an old loom and spinning wheel left in the corner. There is even a desk in there somewhere, though Bucky hasn’t seen it in a while. But what it does have is boxes.  
Boxes piled on top of boxes. Some are made of intricately carved wood and others are made of thin card, stacked higgledy-piggledy from floor to ceiling, the flimsier ones slowly being compressed by the weight of the ones above them. The ones Bucky uses the most are piled around the door, filled with glass jars of every size and shape, corks, reels of cotton and spools of ribbon. There are jars of herbs and resins, boxes of beeswax cut into thin pliable sheets, and tiny, blue glass bottles of flower oils.  
Bucky rests his hands on his hips, and wonders where to start.

There is a gentle knock on the door leading to the workshop, and Steve clears his throat.  
“Hello? Is anyone here?”  
Bucky sits bolt upright, and a large bag of fabric squares succumbs to gravity and tumbles down from the shelf above him, spilling its contents across the floor.  
“Balls!” Bucky hisses. His hands are filled with a haphazard pile of odds and ends, and if he tries to put them down they’ll spill everywhere. Noodle peers down from his relatively safe perch on a shelf between boxes of candle dye and assorted lengths of wicks.  
“Bucky?” Steve edges into the workshop and peers through the door to the stockroom. His eyes widen comically. “What happened?”  
Bucky straightens up, or at least tries to from his position cross-legged on the floor. “I’m just doing a bit of tidying up.”  
“Tidying up?” Steve makes to enter the room, clutching his bag close to his hip in case it knocks something over, but quickly realises that every inch of floor space is covered. “This is chaos. And is that a _spinning wheel?_ ”  
“It looks worse before it looks better.” Bucky shrugs, and a box of chalks slips off the top of his pile.  
Steve reaches out and grabs them before they hit the floor, turning them around in his hands. “Sure it does.”  
Bucky lets out a soft _Hmpf_ , and Steve takes pity on him, shuffling forward. He inches his way into the room and takes the bundle, searching around before putting them down on one of the less wobbly looking piles. He holds out his hands, and after a moment Bucky reaches up to take them. Steve’s hands are warm and rough, his fingers calloused and cracked a little at the joints. His grip is firm as he pulls Bucky to his feet.  
“Thank you,” Bucky murmurs. His skin tingles where Steve has touched it. Not in the bright, painful way of his scars whenever there’s a thunderstorm, but something warmer, sweeter. Bucky rubs at his wrists, lingering over the sensation, and Steve puts down his bag and rolls up his sleeves.  
“Okay, where do I start?”

When the sun sets Steve offers to light some lanterns, and goes fumbling through the dark in search of candles. Bucky chuckles and claps his hands together, chafing his palms before slowly drawing them apart, a silvery ball of light forming between them. The light is bright in his hands, so bright that when he looks down at his fingers, Bucky can see the veins and capillaries under his skin.  
The spell is stronger than he expected, he has never been that good at making light, and he looks at Steve proudly.  
Steve stares back at him, eyes shining, lips parted in a silent _Oh_.  
“Here, catch!” Bucky tosses the light towards him, and Steve lets out a yelp. It falls softly into his hands, and he cradles it almost tenderly, holding it up and laughing. The soft, lunar glow paints his features with silver and opal, and Bucky finds it hard to watch. Instead he folds down the flaps of the box he was sorting through, and wonders why he has so many boxes of ribbons.  
“Alright, that’s enough for one day,” he says, looking over their efforts so far. In truth there were things in there that he had forgotten he owned, and Steve was diligently making a list of everything they had unearthed so far.  
“But we’re not finished.” Steve waves the ball of light to the towers of boxes that still need sorting through, the shadows around them lengthening.  
Bucky grimaces. “I need tea first.”  
“It won’t take much longer.” The light seems to glow a little brighter in Steve’s hands. “We just need to stick with it.”  
“Steve,” Bucky whines. “Don’t make me turn you into a frog.”  
Steve coughs out a laugh. “Okay, we’ll finish another time.” He looks around the room. “Don’t move anything, I have a system.”  
“Oh don’t you worry.” Bucky stretches, arching his spine. “I’m not going anywhere near it.”

It takes Bucky a minute to find Noodle, who had crawled into Steve’s bag and evicted his pens before curling up and going to sleep. He lifts the snake out carefully while Steve rescues his belongings and packs them back up, looping the bag over his shoulder. Steve carries the ball of light in to the workshop while Bucky lays Noodle on the stair rail, giving his head a gentle pat as the snake coils around the bannister.  
As the self-appointed guardian of the ball, Steve follows Bucky around the room as he adds more wood to the fire and fills his heavy, cast iron kettle with fresh water. As much as Steve is trying to be helpful, illuminating the way as Bucky goes about his tasks, he is also underfoot. And the third time Bucky turns around and almost walks into Steve he lets out a sharp, exasperated sound.  
“Sorry.” Steve steps out of his way, and then stumbles back into it again. “Sorry.”  
Bucky lifts the kettle over the fire, hanging the handle on an iron hook over the flames. “Throw it up,” he says, and gives the embers a stir with the poker he keeps with the dustpan and brush on the side.  
“Sorry, what?” Steve asks, trying to squeeze himself between the desk and the fire.  
“The ball.” Bucky gestures to the light in his hands, and then the ceiling. “Throw it up.”  
“Oh.” Steve flicks the ball up in the air, and stares as it brushes against the beams above them, and doesn’t drop down again, bobbing gently against the ceiling. “Oh!”  
Bucky looks up from the fire to see the room is bathed in diffused, opal light that catches strands of Steve’s blond hair and beard, turning them silver and grey. He looks radiant in the light of the spell, and something in Bucky’s chest, lodged under his ribs, twists sharply at the sight. Bucky lets out a startled gasp, and Steve looks his way quickly.  
“Are you okay? Did you burn yourself?”  
“No.” Bucky shakes his head, turning away from him and back to the fire. “No, I’m fine.”

While the water boils Bucky orders Steve to sit down at the desk and not poke at anything. He dutifully takes the offered chair, and then notices the spirit house sitting on the desk.  
“What’s this?” Steve reaches out to pick it up, and then hesitates, remembering the orders to not touch anything.  
“That’s yours,” Bucky says, clearing space on the desk.  
“Mine?” Steve frowns.  
“It’s to take home with you.” lacking anywhere else to move it all to, Bucky puts the clutter back on the desk, but at least it’s not so in the way. “Keep it somewhere where moonlight will find it.”  
“Bucky,” Steve says softly. “I can’t accept this. You’ve already done too much for me.”  
“I’m not listening!” Bucky retorts as he climbs up the stairs, checking on Noodle, still loosely knotted around the rail, and fetches clean crockery from the kitchen. He pulls two cups from the cupboard, hooking a finger through the handles, and a pair of side plates. Knives get tucked under his thumb, and with his free hand he grabs the bag of scones from the market and a jar of homemade jam. He checks his grip, making sure everything is secured, and heads back downstairs.  
When he returns Steve is sitting cross-legged in front of the fire, the spirit house cupped in the palm of his hand, watching the flue intently.  
“Are you alright down there?” Bucky asks, setting everything on the desk.  
“There’s something in the chimney,” Steve murmurs. “I just saw it move.”  
Bucky rinses out his teapot and adds fresh tea leaves before putting it with the rest of the tea things, and goes out to the shop to grab the stool from behind the counter. Since it’s usually only him, he only has the one chair downstairs.  
“There!” Steve points to the fire as Bucky returns, setting the stool down next to the chair at the desk. “I think it’s some kind of spider. Can you see it?”  
“Wandering soot.” Bucky kneels down beside him and reaches out to the flames, and Steve makes a warning sound. “It’s okay,” Bucky reassures him. “It won’t burn me.”  
He clicks his tongue against his teeth, holding his hands out palm upwards, and the soot spirits start to slowly, shyly creep down from the chimney. They wobble on their thin, spindly limbs, climbing into Bucky’s hands and leaving sooty little smears on his fingers.  
“This is Steve,” he tells them. “He’s a friend.”  
They peep softly, and Bucky offers them to Steve.  
“I can hold them?” Steve whispers, putting the spirit house down carefully and cupping his hands under Bucky’s. He watches in avid curiosity Bucky gently tips the creatures into his hands, laughing as they peep and tumble towards him. “They’re so light!” he exclaims.

Bucky leaves Steve to study the spirits, and busies himself with making tea, setting out milk and sugar and piling the scones haphazardly on a plate.  
“How do you take your tea?” Bucky asks. He glances over at Steve and finds him with a sketchbook laid open on his lap, the soot spirits scuttling across the white pages and leaving inky little trails.  
“Milk, if you have it?” Steve replies, watching as little charcoal smudges form on the page.  
Bucky pours the tea, adding a splash of milk to both cups and sugar to his own, the spoon rattling the cup as he gives it a quick stir.  
The sound summons Steve to the desk, and he takes a seat, putting the spirit house next to his cup, as if he can’t bear to have it out of reach.  
“Thank you,” he murmurs while Bucky pushes the plate of scones towards him.  
“I’ve never seen anything like them before. What are they called, ‘soot wanderers’?” Steve asks as he splits his scone in half and spreads the cut side thinly with jam.  
Bucky nods, waiting for Steve to finish with the jam before dolloping a heap on his own scone, half burying the pieces under a glossy mound of hedgerow berries. “You don’t see much of them these days, they like open fireplaces, and most people have those cast iron stoves. Good for keeping the heat in, but not so good for spirits.”  
“They don’t like iron, do they?” Steve watches with mild concern as Bucky takes a bite out of his scone, blobs of jam and the odd bilberry dropping onto his plate. “When I moved into the croft it had an open fire, I nearly froze to death that first winter. And I had to get up in the night to keep adding wood to the fire, it burned down after a few hours, whatever wood I tried.” He smiles to himself, a good southern boy freezing in the northland winter. “Ended up just sleeping on the couch in front of it to keep warm.”  
“But you’re warm enough now?” Bucky asks quickly, his mouth full.  
“Oh yes,” Steve sips at his tea. “I put a new stove in, and a couple of paraffin heaters for when it’s really cold.” He looks around the room. “How do you keep it so warm here? Do you have other heaters?”  
Bucky shakes his head, swallowing. “The little soots take care of the fire. They direct the heat around the whole cottage, make sure it isn’t all lost up the chimney.”  
“Oh!” Steve looks back at the fire, where the soot spirits are still climbing over his sketchbook. “Clever little inklings.”  
Bucky nods, sucking jam off his fingers before picking up another scone. Steve watches as he slices it in two and piles on more jam.  
“All that sugar will rot your teeth,” Steve says, taking another scone when Bucky pushes the plate towards him.  
Bucky grins, displaying even, berry-stained teeth, and takes another bite of scone. Steve huffs, and after a moment of hesitation, adds a little more jam to his own plate.

A comfortable silence falls between them, broken by the occasional slurp of tea and scrape of knife in the jam jar. In no time at all the teapot is empty, and the bag of scones reduced to crumbs.  
Steve wipes the corner of his mouth with his thumb as he looks out the window. There is nothing to see but darkness, and it takes him a minute to realise why.  
“It’s late!” Steve jumps to his feet, pulling his bag onto his shoulder.  
“It’s not that-” Bucky looks out the window, gauging the time from the stars. “Ooh, it’s very late.”  
Steve carefully picks up his sketchbook, putting a sheet of tissue paper between the sooty pages to keep them from getting smudged. “I’m so sorry,” he flusters. “I shouldn’t be taking up so much of your time.”  
“It’s fine,” Bucky tries to reassure him. “It was time freely given.”  
Steve freezes, his brow creasing in concern. “The tags. I completely forgot with all the-”  
“Steve,” Bucky says firmly, getting his attention. “It’s fine.”  
“No, it’s not! I-”  
“Don’t argue with a Witch, Steve.” Bucky starts collecting up the tea things. “Not unless you want to end up much, much smaller and much, much greener.”  
Steve pales a little. “You wouldn’t.”  
Bucky raises his eyebrows.  
“You _wouldn’t_.”  
“You’d make a very handsome frog.” Bucky smirks. “I’d put an old flower pot in the garden for you to sit in.”  
Instead of laughing, Steve frowns, unmoved by Bucky’s gentle teasing. “I can’t keep taking up your time.”  
_Why not?_ a small, foolish part of Bucky thinks, and he pushes it aside.  
“Yes, you can.” Bucky carries the dirty dishes to the stairs, and starts climbing up.  
Steve has enough sense to not follow uninvited, especially when Noodle perks up, raising his head and flicking his tongue in Steve’s direction. He hovers at the bottom step, watching Bucky disappear from sight. “There must be something I can do,” he calls, exasperated.  
Bucky places the dishes in the sink to deal with later, and as simple as that, a solution presents itself.  
“There is,” Bucky pauses at the top of the stairs, looking down at Steve, silver and bright in the pale light. “You can help me with the Spring Festival.”

***

Against all of Bucky’s expectations, Steve is excited about the Spring Festival, and full of ideas for how to decorate the village square. Some of them are a little too ambitious, especially working on short notice, but they manage to fill the square with pots of daffodils and bluebells. Steve paints brightly coloured flowers onto sheets of canvas and hangs them with an artist’s eye, bringing light and colour to the dull, muddy corners of the surrounding buildings. While he’s working on the canvases Bucky climbs up the oak tree in the middle of the square and ties ribbons to its branches that catch and flutter in the breeze.  
It’s not long before he has an audience, and when Bucky looks down between the branches he sees the Maximoff twins staring up at him. The girl wears a plain black dress, with a thick, wine-red coat to keep her warm. Her brother is dressed in farmhand clothes, mud splattered trousers and a work shirt.  
Bucky waves, his bag slipping off his shoulder and spilling a handful of ribbons. They twist through the air in a scarlet cascade, and the girl reaches up to catch them.  
The girl pulls the ribbons through her fingers, marvelling at the feel of silk. Bucky half expects her to run off with them, and he wouldn’t mind if she did, but smiles to himself when she picks one out and starts tying it to the nearest branch in reach.  
“Not too tightly,” Bucky calls down, and demonstrates a simple knot that will hold the ribbon in place, but pull free without damaging the tree.  
The girl picks up the technique quickly, and shows it to her brother. He lacks her dexterity, but makes up for it by being much better at climbing trees, scrambling up to the higher branches that Bucky can’t reach and festooning them with ribbons.

By the time they are finished the tree is a riot of colour; streamers of red and green and blue fluttering as the wind pulls at them, making them dance.  
The girl watches Bucky climb down, her brother jumping from a thick branch and landing lightly on the balls of his feet.  
“You’re the Witch,” she says.  
“I am,” Bucky agrees. “Much prefer to be called Bucky, though.”  
The girl gives him a hesitant smile, and it makes Bucky’s heart ache. It’s a smile that is out of practice, like she has forgotten how to laugh.  
“Do you have a broomstick?” the boy asks excitedly. “Can you fly?”  
“I prefer to walk,” Bucky says. “But yes, I have a broom.”  
“Can you teach us magic?” The girl doesn’t waste time. Direct and uncompromising, Bucky notes. Good traits for a Witch.  
“That depends.” Bucky adjusts the strap of his bag, hitching it onto his shoulder.  
“Depends on what?” The boy shifts impatiently. “We know our letters, we can read and write.”  
“I don’t doubt that,” Bucky reassures him. “But magic isn’t just about reading or writing. Knowledge is nothing without understanding.”  
The boy frowns. “Huh?”  
His sister’s eyes widen. “Pennies,” she says.  
“Hmm?” Bucky looks at her curiously, and she reaches into her pocket, pulling out a few coins. Not enough coins, Bucky can’t help but notice, and grimy like they had been picked up off the ground.  
“Kurt, the locksmith in the market? We cover his stall if he has to go fix something.”  
Bucky remembers the stallholder, his thick accent from the frozen north, the iron padlocks and gate latches arranged on his stall.  
“A small latch is one of these.” She points to a small coin. “A large latch is one of these.” She taps another coin. “But if you were to give him this in pennies, he wouldn’t understand that it came to the same amount. He knows this coin for this latch, that coin for the other, but he doesn’t see the worth of the coin itself.”  
“Have you explained it to him?” Bucky asks, a little too sharply.  
“Countless times,” the boy says wearily. “He’s smart, he knows his letters, and he can make anything out of iron. But numbers? It’s like he’s blind to them.”  
“Is that what magic is?” The girl tucks the coins carefully back in her pocket.  
“A little bit,” Bucky nods. “And asking questions. What is this? What is its form, what is its purpose? How long will it abide in the world?” The old lessons roll easily from his tongue, as if for all these years they had been gathered behind his teeth, never far from his speech.  
“I’m Wanda,” the girl points to her brother, “And that clod is Pietro.”  
“Hey!” Pietro yells. “I’m not a clod! I’m a _miscreant_. Farmer Barton said so.”  
Bucky laughs as Pietro tilts his chin up proudly. 

“You say you help out on the stalls?” Bucky asks Wanda and she nods quickly. “Come by the cottage sometime. I could use a hand in the shop.”  
If Wanda is disappointed that it’s not an offer to teach her magic, she doesn’t look it. She only looks relieved at the prospect of work.  
“We will,” she promises, and with that grabs her brothers sleeve and hurries off, as though hanging around might give Bucky a chance to change his mind.  
Bucky watches them run across the square, dodging around the musicians setting up for the festivities. While they had been talking, other people had been busy. The carts selling pies and ale have arrived, the smell of beer and buttered pastry wafting across the courtyard.  
There is a sound of shuffling feet, a hesitant clearing of a throat, and Bucky turns around to find Steve watching him.  
There is an open, almost awed expression on his face, as if looking at something beautiful, and Bucky steps back, taking in the ribbon covered tree and the flower-covered square.  
“Not too bad,” Bucky says proudly.  
An odd look passes across Steve’s face, and he shoves his hands into his pocket.  
“Would you like a beer?” He points to the beer cart. “I mean, do Witches drink beer?”  
Bucky grins. “We drink beer.”  
“Oh. Good.” Steve rubs his fingers through his scruff of beard. “I was starting to think you were like a bee or something, only existing on sugar.”  
Bucky huffs, pretending to be indignant, and gives Steve a prod to the ribs. “Oh, it’s like that is it? Well, you’re definitely buying.”  
Steve chuckles and leads Bucky towards the cart. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Although Bucky prefers cider to beer, which he finds much too bitter, he gladly accepts the mug of ale from Steve. They drink their beer in the shade of the oak tree, and the further down the mug Bucky gets, the more agreeable he finds the taste.  
People start arriving, children running around the marketplace in search of the chocolates Bucky has hidden amongst the flowers, each one inside in a pasteboard egg painted in bright colours.  
The band strikes up. The melody is unfamiliar to Bucky, but he taps his foot along to the guitars and fiddles clashing in a jaunty, rousing tune that gets people dancing around the square.  
Across the way he sees Pietro flirting with one of the farm girls, coaxing her into a dance, and the bowler hat of Dugan weaving through the throng. Even Clint is there, stepping out with the redhead poacher Bucky has seen skirting the woods on the lookout for rabbits. Bucky finishes his ale, and wonders how Steve would react to the offer of a dance. Just a friendly turn around the square, of course. Nothing more.  
“Peggy!” Steve calls out, and ducks out from under the tree, walking towards two well-dressed women approaching the square.  
One has long, dark hair that falls to her shoulders and lips painted scarlet. She is dressed in riding gear, tailored to hug her hourglass form and expensive-looking to even Bucky’s untrained eye. Her companion couldn’t be more different, from her head of tight blonde curls to her flowing green dress. Their arms are linked, the blonde leaning in to whisper and laugh in the brunettes ear.  
“Steve.” The brunette, Peggy from what Bucky can guess, reaches out to give Steve a one-armed hug. “It’s so good to see you.” She kisses him on the cheek, leaving a perfect print of her lips in red. Bucky has a sudden, sharp urge to go over there and wipe it off.

Steve and Peggy fall into conversation, and Bucky fidgets with his empty cup, unsure whether to go over and introduce himself, or wait until he is invited.  
“Excuse me?”  
Someone taps at Bucky’s shoulder, and he turns around, coming face to face with a man with rumpled features behind gold-rimmed glasses and wiry, greying hair.  
“Yes?” Bucky gives the stranger a smile. “Can I help you?”  
“You’re the Witch?” The man pushes his glasses up his nose with a finger. “Mr Barnes?”  
“Call me Bucky.”  
“Banner, uh, Bruce Banner. I’m the physician for here and the surrounding farmlands.”  
“Dr Banner,” Bucky’s smile brightens up. “I’ve heard all about you.”  
“Oh, I hope not.” Bruce takes off his glasses and polishes them on the hem of his shirt. He props them back on the end of his nose and frowns, as if they’d somehow gotten dirtier, and Bucky finds himself liking the man immediately.  
“People speak very highly of you, doctor.”  
“Bruce, please.” Bruce shrugs. “Around these parts I’m more veterinarian than physician.”  
“Well, I’m sure that means you’re doubly appreciated.”  
Bruce flusters a little, before taking note of Bucky’s empty mug and gesturing to the ale cart. “Won’t you join me?”  
Bucky turns to Steve, mouth open to offer him another drink, and he snaps it shut again. Steve looks _happy_ , laughing and talking with his friends. Bucky should be pleased to see him smiling, unburdened by wraiths and sorrows, so why does it needle at him like a thorn in his finger?  
Bucky swallows, and turns back to Bruce. “I’d love to.”


	3. Pale Green Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “To complete the spell you need to put a little part of yourself into it, a piece of who you are, to seal the spell.” Bucky rubs his eyes. “A lock of your hair, or your true name, so the old stories go.”  
> “I think I can manage hair,” Steve scrubs his fingers through his beard ruefully. “Is that what you did with yours?”  
> “No,” Bucky shakes his head. “I used my heart.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as always, to Trish and Jillian, and to Buhfly for tucking in the loose corners and yelling at me when I needed yelling at
> 
> You can find us on tumblr! [Littleblackfox](http://thelittleblackfox.tumblr.com) [WarlockInTraining](http://warlockintraining.tumblr.com)

After too many days of rain, the sun breaks through the clouds, filling the air with the rich, grassy aroma of new growth. New growth also means weeds, so Bucky decides to move the afternoon lesson outside.  
On the north side of the cottage leading to the forest is the herb garden. Although many of the plants growing there are vestiges from the last Witch’s garden, Bucky doesn’t have the heart to dig them up. He likes the contrast of the old and the new; the ribbed, wine-red stems of mugwort and tansy against the sprawl of peppermint, the downy wormwood spires towering over the bee covered lavenders.  
The first thing he did when he moved into the cottage, before sweeping the floors and lighting the fire, was plant rosemary by each doorway and under every window. He remembers the way the wind rattled through the trees as he hunched over in the rain and the cold, his bare fingers digging into the hard earth. Now the tough, resinous stems are covered in tiny blue flowers. _Roses-of-the-sea_ Hawley had called them, and no harm could cross a threshold guarded by them. Honey bees buzz from flower to flower before returning to the hive, a stack of interconnecting boxes Bucky had placed under the shade of the apple trees in that first week, and waited for the bees to find him.  
The oregano that he sowed has grown like weeds, popping up in unexpected cracks and corners. As much as the bees love their frothy white flowers, it’s far too many for Bucky to maintain in a garden of his size. So instead of subjecting the twins (and himself) to another day of lessons indoors, Bucky ties up his hair with a scrap of ribbon and sends them outside with their work, before closing up the shop for the day. If anyone comes knocking, he’ll be able to see them from the garden.  
The shop taken care of, he fetches a trowel and some terracotta pots from the greenhouse. He arranges the pots of a tray, adding a handful of compost to each one, and takes them outside. Once potted up he’ll put them out for sale, and they can spread their simple, joyful magics in kitchens and gardens elsewhere.

Wanda sits on the grass, her head bowed over the lengths of waxed cord in her lap. Pietro sits with his back to the cottage, soaking up the heat of the sun warmed stones. While Wanda practices her knots, Pietro stares intently at a stub of candle sitting on the grass in front of him. His brow furrows in concentration, and the candle wick starts to smoulder.  
“C’mon c’mon,” Pietro mutters, as if he could beg the flame into life.  
“Gently,” Bucky calls over to him, trowel in hand. “Not so rough. It just needs a little push.”  
“It’s not working,” Pietro whines.  
“Yes it is.” Bucky smiles to himself. Was he ever this impatient?  
The scars under the long sleeves of his shirt prickle, and he remembers. He was far, far worse, reckless and proud, and paid the price for it.  
“Think of it like whistling.” Bucky pushes the sour thought aside. “You don’t whistle by blowing harder, do you? It’s how you shape yourself around the air, not the force you apply to it.”  
Pietro grumbles, shifting into a more comfortable position. He crosses his legs, propping his elbows on his knees and resting his chin in his cupped palms. “Burn, you fucker.”  
“Pietro!” Wanda gasps. “Wash your mouth out!”  
The laugh punches its way out of Bucky’s throat, and he sits back, wheezing with the force of it, tears pricking at his eyes.  
“Worth a shot,” Pietro shrugs.  
“Alright,” Bucky rubs at his eyes, catching his breath. “That’s certainly one way to do it.”  
Wanda snorts and picks up another strand of waxed cord, weaving it into the wall hanging she is making.

Pietro has an affinity for flame, and from the way Bucky’s arm itches when the boy works, especially lightning. Bucky still hasn’t worked out how to approach that lesson, so can only come at it sideways, teaching him to work with fire. Someday, sooner than Bucky will ever be ready for, he’ll want to go flying a kite in a thunderstorm or something.  
Wanda’s skills lie in her hands, Bucky saw that when she tied ribbons to the village oak. She has taken to knot magic immediately, tying her intentions into lengths of waxed cord. Some of her spells are simple, like the thin strip of leather wrapped around Bucky’s right wrist and the thick, intricately braided one around Pietro’s. The wall hanging is her most ambitious piece so far, and Bucky has already searched through the boxes in his storeroom and found the case of crochet hooks and knitting needles, waiting for the moment she is ready for them. In time, she may even move on to the spinning wheel and the loom left by the last Witch. Until then, he is content to watch her work, finding her own path one length of spelled cord at a time.

Bucky digs up the last oregano and beds it into its pot, adding a little more compost and patting it down before putting back on the tray with the others. He carries his pots back to the greenhouse, arranging them on on the shelves in the sunlight, and the room fills with their strong, resinous scent. The shelf is getting crowded with all the different plants, some in pots no bigger than his fingertip, others in ones that need both hands to carry them. Pale shoots push through the damp compost, and Bucky runs his fingers gently over the new growth. Small green things, full of promise and potential.  
Bucky takes a pencil from a pot on one of the higher shelves, and a few slips of wood. He carefully writes out the common name, Oregano, and the botanical name _Oreganum vulgare_. As an apprentice Witch he had been expected to learn the names for every plant he might ever encounter, not to be difficult (though it had felt like it at the time) but to be _certain_. The common names of plants were varied and wild, and often repeated; Aaron’s Rod could mean any tall, yellow flower spike, not just the one that eases sore throats. Even something so well known as oregano seemed to have a dozen different names.  
At the least, a person’s ailments would go untreated, as they drank tea made of the wrong plant. At worst, they could be at risk of poison. So Bucky carefully writes out the full names in his neatest cursive. He pushes the markers into each pot, and checks over all his plants. Soon he’ll start moving them to the shop, where they will brighten up the shelves and draw in customers. 

Bucky clicks his tongue against his teeth, wondering how to make room for them all, when there’s a knock at the door.  
He washes his hands in the greenhouse sink, the wide ceramic basin full of dirty pots that are in need of scrubbing, and wipes his hands on his trousers before heading out into the shop.  
“Yes, yes, I heard you!” Bucky calls out as they start hammering on the door.  
He glances at the spirit bottles on the shelves. The shapes within are moving, ponderous and sleepy, with no signs of alarm or agitation, so Bucky knows that whatever is at the door isn’t a threat or a panic. Noodle, curled around the jars of candles like one of Wanda’s lengths of waxed cord, raises his head and flicks out his tongue.  
Bucky hesitates. He knows that signal, though he’s only seen it a handful of times.  
“Steve?” he calls softly, pushing back the bolt and opening the door.  
It’s Dr Banner he sees first, looking haggard, his glasses askew. He’s holding onto a bloodied, furious-looking Steve by his jacket.

“I said let me go!” Steve hisses, trying to pull away. Banner must be stronger than he looks, because he doesn’t get very far.  
There’s a graze on his cheek, blood trickling into the dark blond of his beard. Both his hands are bloodied, the knuckles scraped raw. From the way Bruce is twisting his jacket Bucky can glimpse a bruise forming along the sharp jut of his collarbone.  
“Steve,” Bucky murmurs, and Steve stops struggling. “What happened?”  
Steve doesn’t answer, and stares at the doorframe sullenly, avoiding Bucky’s eye.  
“Mr Rogers here got into an altercation with one of the day labourers,” Bruce answers for him.  
Bucky frowns, drawing his lower lip between his teeth. In the busy times during spring sowing and harvest the farms employed casual workers from the city. For the few weeks while fields were ploughed or crops gathered the village experienced a sudden influx of strangers. They’d drink the pub dry and get into the occasional scuffle, before heading home with their pay, and on more than one occasion left a local girl in trouble.  
They were a necessity, the fields wouldn’t get ploughed and the harvest wouldn’t be brought in without them, but Bucky could practically smell the unease in the air. It was inevitable that a fight would break out somewhere. And of course it would be Steve in the middle of it.  
“Where’s the other one?” Bucky asks.  
“Rumlow is waiting for me at the Surgery,” Bruce explains, and gives Steve’s jacket a shake. “This one won’t be in the same building as him, so that’s why we’re here. Can you check him over, get him cleaned up? I’ll go deal with the other guy.”  
“Of course.” Bucky steps back from the doorway, and Bruce gives Steve a gentle shove into the shop. “I’ll take care of it.”  
“Thank you,” Bruce says emphatically. “Don’t let him run off, he’ll probably go charging back to the Surgery and-”  
“It’s fine, Bruce.” Bucky puts a hand on Bruce’s arm, a wisp of spell for calm dancing between his fingers. “Go see to your patient.”  
Bruce takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes, and Bucky can see the spell taking effect. “I need to ask around, find out who he’s working for. They’re gonna be a hand short now.”  
“You’re sending him home?” Bucky raises his eyebrows. “How badly is he hurt?”  
“No, no, he’s fine.” Bruce puts his glasses on again. “He’s just… outstayed his welcome.”  
Bucky looks over at Steve, who is staring at his feet, his hands cupped against his chest to keep from dripping blood all over the shop floor.  
“What happened?” Bucky asks softly.  
“Ask him,” Bruce sighs. “I’ve got to go.”  
“Sure.” Bucky gestures for him to leave, his thoughts in a tangle. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

Bruce gives him a nod before hurrying off, and Bucky pushes the door shut. With slow, deliberate motions, he pushes the bolt across, and turns around to face Steve. His eyes flick up to Bucky, and then back to the floor.  
_Stubborn and proud_ , Bucky remembers.  
“Come on then,” Bucky sighs. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”  
He pushes aside the drape that separates the shop from the workroom, letting it drop again as he passes, and rolls up his sleeves. There is soap by the sink in the greenhouse, flecked with peppermint and lavender to promote good health and new growth. Bucky scrubs the soil from his hands, scraping under his fingernails until there is no trace of dirt left, and goes back to the workshop.  
He feels uncomfortably exposed, his scarred arm on display from wrist to elbow, but doesn’t let himself dwell on it.  
Steve is still on the shop floor, neither following Bucky into the workroom nor leaving. The cast iron kettle that lives by the fire is still half full from the tea Bucky made earlier, the water still warm. Bucky wraps a cloth around the handle before picking up up, and carries it to the stairs. He looks over his shoulder to where Steve is, standing by the door with that sullen look on his face.  
“Come on,” Bucky repeats himself, and starts climbing the stairs.  
For a minute he thinks Steve is going to stay right where he is and put down roots, but after a moment he curses softly and follows.

Where the downstairs of the cottage is divided into three separate areas, upstairs is an open-plan room, with a walled-off bathroom to the immediate right of the stairs. There is a table with a single chair under a window and a kitchenette taking up half the space, though most of Bucky’s meals are made and eaten downstairs in front of the fire. When he first moved into the cottage he ate upstairs, sitting at the table and staring out the window at the village. But the silence instead of being restful was stifling, and he took to having his meals downstairs. He told himself that it was because the window latch was broken, and he didn’t like sitting in a draft, but he knew that wasn’t the truth.  
The kitchen cupboards are well stocked, filled with jars of jam and honey and packets of barley, and the mismatched cups and plates that he had gathered on his travels. To the left of the stairs, in the last cramped nook of space that wasn’t taken up by bookshelves and wardrobe, is the bed.  
It is small, another relic from the last Witch, with a sturdy wooden frame. The mattress is new, one night sleeping on a pad stuffed with old, mouldering straw had been one night too many, and Bucky had gone out in search of a replacement before the sun even rose.

He puts the kettle on the kitchen counter and opens up a cupboard, searching around for a large bowl. The stairs creak as Steve climbs up to join him.  
“Sit down,” Bucky orders, his head still in a cupboard, and he hears the squeak of springs as Steve sits carefully on the edge of the bed.  
Bucky finds a mixing bowl and a couple of clean cloths, dropping them into the bowl before half filling it with steaming water. Steve doesn’t look up when Bucky places the bowl down at his feet, which makes him frown, concern souring in his stomach. All this sulking isn’t like him.  
Bucky grabs the first aid kit from the kitchen counter and the chair from under the window, lifting it up to keep the feet from dragging across the floor and making a teeth-clenching racket. He puts the chair right in front of Steve and sits down, their knees knocking. Steve shuffles back a little, and Bucky scoots his seat forward until their feet tap together.  
“Bucky,” Steve chides, shifting his feet out of the way.  
“Oh, so you can talk?” Bucky opens up his first aid kit, a small, painted wooden box filled with rolls of bandages and cork-stoppered vials of salves and salts, neatly arranged in their little compartments. He taps his fingers against the sides of the box, thinking it over. He needs something to clean the wound and prevent infection. There is arnica, a bright yellow flower that grows in the mountains, for healing bruises. There is comfrey to knit together broken bones. But the line of Steve’s shoulders and the tension in his clenched jaw tells Bucky another story.  
“Rosemary,” Bucky announces, and picks out a vial of clear liquid. He adds a few drops to the bowl of water before sealing up the vial and putting it back in its place.  
“An antiseptic,” Bucky explains, putting the box on the bed by Steve’s hip. “It should keep you from getting an infection, but come see me if your hands swell up or feel hot.”  
Steve mumbles an acknowledgement, but says nothing more.

Bucky bites back a sigh, and shifts the bowl across the floor with his foot until it’s between them.  
“Alright, let’s see them.” Bucky holds out his hands.  
Steve somehow manages to draw even further into himself. “I can do it,” he mutters.  
“I don’t doubt it,” Bucky agrees. “But I gave my word to Dr Banner. So give ‘em up.”  
At that, Steve grudgingly offers up his hands, and Bucky takes them carefully, cradling them in his own. The skin on his knuckles is reddened and torn, with deep cuts that are still seeping blood. His fingers are starting to darken and swell as bruises form, and even with Bucky’s best work it will be days before he will be holding a pencil again.  
With that in mind, Bucky starts to press with his fingers, feeling for breaks. He has Steve bend each finger one at a time, checking for ease and range of movement, before rotating his wrist.  
“Ow,” Steve flinches when Bucky pushes at his palm, holding his wrist steady. “That hurts.”  
“Yeah, well that’s what you get for punching someone,” Bucky points out.  
Steve gives him a glare, but his heart isn’t in it, and Bucky fishes one of the cloths out of the hot water, wringing it out a little before applying it to Steve’s hand.  
He flinches, tugging against Bucky’s grip on his wrist, but doesn’t pull away completely. The air between them fills with astringent, resinous steam.  
“Rosemary is a stimulant, which means it’s good for the circulation.” Bucky recites from memory. It’s not just idle chatter, Steve’s so tense that his shoulders are pulled up almost to his ears, and Bucky hopes that the sound of his voice, if not the words he’s saying, will settle Steve’s nerves. So he speaks, quiet and gentle, as if soothing a panicked spirit. 

“My teacher Hawley, she was a herbalist, lived in a cottage by the seashore. We used to go out every morning, when the tide went out, and search the beach for seaweed. There were so many different kinds, and I could barely tell them apart. I’d be digging through the sand looking for pieces of amber and quartz instead.” Bucky rinses the cloth out in the water before dabbing at Steve’s knuckles. “Then we’d go back to the cottage and she’d lay them out to dry, and I had to sit and draw them. Filled a whole grimoire with these scratchy little sketches.” Bucky’s mouth quirks up. “I was a terrible artist.”  
Steve smiles in spite of himself, and Bucky feels a little burst of triumph at the sight. He dips the cloth into the water, stained pink with blood, and wrings it out again. “Other hand.”  
Steve withdraws his cleaned hand, the scabbing wounds opened up with Bucky’s cleaning and bleeding again. He holds it over the bowl, so the beads of blood drip into the water and not on the floor. “She taught you this?” Steve asks, his voice roughened.  
“She did.” Bucky starts work on Steve’s other hand. “This and a whole lot more.”  
“And now you’re teaching the twins.” Steve murmurs as Bucky cleans his hand, fresh blood welling up on his knuckles as the dirt is washed away.  
“I am.”  
“It’s…” Steve hesitates, clearing his throat. “It’s good. That you’re taking care of them.” He looks embarrassed, colour rising on his cheeks.  
“It’s what I’m here for,” Bucky says softly.

Bucky drops the cloth back into the bowl, and picks out a vial of liniment from the first aid box. He withdraws the cork and pours a little onto his fingers. The smell is sharp and medicinal, with an undertone of summer flowers.  
“This will sting a little,” he says by way of apology, and rubs the mixture onto Steve’s knuckles.  
It does sting, like vinegar on a paper cut, and Steve lets out a sharp hiss.  
“I know, I’m sorry,” Bucky says, lifting Steve’s hand up to his mouth and blowing over the torn skin. Steve makes another sound, low and rasping, and clamps his mouth shut.  
Bucky puts the liniment to one side, and picks up a roll of bandage and piece of gauze out of the kit. He lays the gauze across Steve’s knuckles, the white cloth turning red where it touches the skin, and starts wrapping his hand in the bandage.  
The silence between them feels weighted, charged with light. And as if summoned the sun breaks through the clouds outside, light streaming through the windows and falling across the bed. Steve swallows, his fingers twitching in Bucky’s hand.  
“How…?” Steve stops and takes a breath. “When did you…?” The question trails off as Bucky starts wrapping his wrist.  
“Become a Witch?” Bucky guesses, and Steve gives a sharp tilt of his chin. Yes.  
“I was thirteen. My father was a fisherman, and my mother died having me. One day he went out to sea and.” Bucky pauses to tie the bandage in place. “And didn’t come back. I knew there was a Witch further up the coast, so I packed up all the food I had left and went looking for her.” Bucky mouth twitches. “Knocked on her door and told her to teach me magic, and if she couldn’t teach me magic then turn me into a wolf, and I’ll go live in the woods.”  
Bucky pours a little more liniment into his palm and gestures for Steve to change hands.  
“So you became her apprentice.” Steve smiles at last, hesitant and warm.  
“I did,” Bucky curls his hand around Steve’s wrist. “She called me little wolf.”

They fall into silence again while Bucky focuses on his work, the smell of rosemary and lavender sharp and cleansing, Steve’s hands warm and rough under his touch. Bucky feels like he is touched by fire where the light falls upon their joined hands, heat radiating out from his fingers, flame burning in his breast.  
“I was born in the city,” Steve offers. “We had a place down by the docks. It was cheap and smelled like fish and the windows never closed properly. I was an apprentice too, with an artist.” Steve sits forward, his bandaged hand resting against the wine red blanket spread across the bed. “All I was allowed to do was draw statues. Day after day I went to the gallery and drew the same damn marbles over and over for years, while he painted gardens and mountains and waterfalls and…” Steve shakes his head. “Damn, I hated him. And his statues.”  
Bucky chuckles, fetching more bandages from his kit. He presses the gauze to Steve’s knuckles and starts winding the bandage around his bruised hand. “But you’re painting now.”  
“I am,” Steve agrees, his voice a low, barely audible thrum in his throat.  
Bucky looks up, and sees Steve staring at him. Despite the afternoon light that falls across him, catching the tags around his neck and turning his tousled blond hair into spun gold, Steve’s eyes are dark. Dark like the sea before a storm.  
Bucky’s heart pounds in his chest, so loud that Steve must be able to hear it. It rattles the windows, it makes the floor shake. Bucky lifts his chin up, for reasons he can’t explain, as though his body were no longer under his control, and Steve tilts towards him, the sunlight limning his features with amber. His eyes, heavy-lidded, fall closed as his breath brushes Bucky’s cheek.

“Bucky!” Pietro yells from the bottom of the stairs. “Someone at the door!”  
Steve recoils, as though he’d been slapped, his foot knocking the bowl of water and sending the contents sloshing onto the floor. He curses vehemently, tugging his hand out of Bucky’s hold, and jumps to his feet.  
“Sorry,” Steve blurts out and Bucky can’t even tell if he’s apologising for the spill or...  
“It’s okay,” Bucky says quickly, scooping up the half empty bowl before Steve can get it. “Just a little spill.”  
“I’ll get a cloth-” Steve begins.  
“Sit down!” Bucky says sharply, and to his shock Steve does.  
Bucky scrubs his hand across his face and sucks in a breath, pulling himself together. _What the hell was he thinking?_  
“Pietro?”  
“Yeah?”  
“Let them in, find out what they need.”  
Bucky takes the bowl over to the sink, and pours away the cloudy, pinkish water, before returning to Steve and taking his seat.  
“I’m sorry,” Steve says again.  
“Nothing to be sorry about.” Bucky gestures for Steve’s hand, half wrapped and the bandage hanging loose. “Let me finish wrapping that up.”  
Steve complies silently and Bucky gets to work, winding the bandage around his wrist quickly and tightly. “You’ll need to rest it for a couple of days.” Steve opens his mouth. “If you argue I will turn you into a toad, Steve Rogers. A fat, warty toad.” Steve’s mouth shuts with an audible click of teeth. “Keep it wrapped, I’ll give you some ointment to help with the bruising. Understood?”  
“Understood.”

“Buck?” Pietro yells again.  
Bucky looks at the spreading damp patch on the floor, and decides to deal with it later. All of it.  
“Come on,” he taps Steve’s elbow. “Downstairs.”  
Pietro is jiggling impatiently on the bottom step with a look on his face like it’s the winter solstice, which can only mean-  
“Fire spirit!” Pietro bursts out. “At the dairy. You said I could come with you next time you dealt with a fire spirit.”  
Bucky pushes past him, grabbing his coat from where it’s hanging on the back of his chair. He never thought he’d be grateful to hear of a fire spirit, but he’ll gladly take any reason to get Steve out of the cottage before Bucky does something stupid.  
“Hmm,” he says with feigned indifference, pushing his arms through the sleeves. “I suppose I did.”  
“So I can come?” Pietro bounces on the balls of his feet, waiting while Bucky takes his hat off the desk and jams it on his head. “Come on, you promised.”  
Bucky goes through to the shop, Pietro and Steve trailing after him like ducklings, and picks a jar off one of the shelves.  
“Here.” He puts it into Steve’s hands. “Remember what I said about swelling up or burning.”  
Steve nods, and Bucky pushes him, in the kindest way possible, towards the door.  
“Wanda?” Bucky calls out to the garden as Steve steps out into the street. “Get my case. We’re going on a field trip.”  
Pietro whoops in delight, and Bucky can hear the sound of Wanda scrambling to get her things together.  
Steve, still looking pale and off kilter, starts walking away.  
“Steve?” Bucky calls before he can get too far down the street.  
Steve turns back, something strange in his expression, distant and withdrawn. He tugs absently at the bandages at his wrist. “Yes?”  
“Come back tomorrow?” Bucky asks, and Steve’s expression brightens a little, though it’s nowhere near its usual warmth. “I’ll need to check your bandages.” Bucky flashes him a brief smile. “And you can lie about not doing any art.”  
Steve huffs, ducking his head. “Alright,” he scuffs the toe of his boot in the dirt. “Tomorrow.”

***

Steve returns the next day, with telltale spatters of paint on his bandages and charcoal under his fingernails. Under Bucky’s care the bruises fade quickly, the cuts on his hands closing up and scabbing over with surprising speed.  
On the third day Bucky unspools the bandages and pronounces Steve better, and sends him on his way. Bucky doesn’t expect to see him again until the full moon, but the next morning Steve comes knocking at his door.  
“Steve?” Bucky opens the door, Noodle draped over his shoulders. “What are you doing here? Are you alright?”  
In answer Steve holds up a soft leather bag of tools. “I noticed your window wasn’t closing properly. When we were upstairs the other day?” he flushes a little, and clears his throat. “And those shelves in the storeroom need fixing.”  
“Steve,” Bucky says softly. “You don’t have to do that. You’re not in debt to me.”  
“Yes I am,” Steve says, a sharp edge under the softness of his words. “I’ll start upstairs, shall I?”  
Noodle lifts up his head, stretching out towards Steve, his tongue tasting the air in short, rapid flicks. Instead of recoiling, Steve opens the bag out so the snake can take a closer look, and Bucky catches sight of an assortment of tools, worn but well cared for. Noodle noses at the bag, trying to find a way in, and Bucky curls his hand around the thickest part of his body, supporting his weight.  
“Less of that, young man.” Bucky pulls the snake back a little, and Noodle strains to get back to the bag.  
“That’s okay,” Steve says, the picture of calm. “He can come with me if he wants to.”  
“He likes bags,” Buck explains, and loosens his grip on the snake.  
Noodle proves Bucky’s point by darting into the opening, and curling up among the tools. Steve takes the additional weight easily, holding the bag carefully.  
“If he gets grumpy about taking out the tools, just give him a little stroke,” Bucky advises. “He’ll curl up and go to sleep.”  
Steve nods, looking less than confidant, but determined. “Upstairs, then?”  
Bucky nods, pushing the door closed as he comes into the shop.

Despite the temptation to go with him, Bucky sends Steve up on his own. He promises tea when he’s done, and goes back to his desk to carry on with his work.  
As Bucky sorts through the litter of materials on his desk, candles and carving tools and dried flowers, picking up the thread of his work, he listens to the squeak of the stairs as Steve climbs up, the telltale groan of the last step where Steve pauses for some reason. Bucky looks up at the ceiling, worry creeping at the edge of his thoughts. But whatever it was that makes Steve hesitate passes quickly, it seems. There is a shifting of weight, and the heavy tread of Steve’s feet across the floor.  
Bucky listens for a few more minutes; to the soft sounds of Steve talking to Noodle as he retrieves tools from his bag, the squeak of the window being opened, Steve humming a snatch of tune while he works.  
A tension in Bucky’s spine, a weight on his shoulders bourne for so long that he barely remembers not carrying it, eases a little. Bucky picks up his carving blade and a pillar candle, and sets to work.

***

Wanda throws her bundle of yarn onto the grass. “I can’t do it!”  
She throws the crochet hook for good measure, the slim isipho rod arcing through the air and spearing the ground at Bucky’s feet. Cinnamon, dozing in the grass at Bucky’s side, wakes with a start, and noses at the crochet hook curiously as Bucky picks it up. He twirls it around in his fingers before holding it out to Wanda.  
“Yes, you can.” Bucky tells her patiently. “Just take it one stitch at a time.”  
Wanda takes the hook from his outstretched hand. “I’ll never get this.”  
“Yes, you will,” Bucky reassures her. “It’s like walking a long road. You put one foot in front of the other, one stitch at a time, and before you know it you’re where you need to be.”  
He puts aside his secateurs and twine, and sits by her side, watching as she picks up her stitch. He nudges at her hands, moving her fingers to a more comfortable position, and rests his chin on her shoulder as she sets to work.  
Spring is slouching its way towards summer, and it’s far too stuffy in the cottage, so everyone is piled on the grass in the herb garden, making the most of the dappled shade offered by the apple tree.  
Bucky should be making more candles; fat, sunshine yellow ones infused with citron oil. But the thought of hovering over the fire stirring a pot of hot wax is too unbearable, so he is harvesting flowering bundles of lavender instead. Some will be hung up in the storeroom to dry before use, and others will get tied into little bunches tied with strips of white ribbon and sold in the shop.  
Pietro has finished his morning’s work, and is sprawled on the grass, dozing in the sun. Even Steve is here.  
Ever since the fight (and Bucky still doesn’t know what that was all about) Steve has been coming to the shop more and more. After fixing the upstairs window, he replaced the damaged shelf in the storeroom. After that, the door to the greenhouse that never quite shut properly got rehinged, then the loose quarry tiles on the workshop floor were fixed down and grouted.  
Steve was probably gearing up to do something ridiculous like repoint the chimney when Bucky put a hand on his shoulder and told him in a soft, amused voice that he didn’t need excuses to come visit.  
Since then, any sunny day Steve has to spare can find him in the herb garden, sketchbook in hand, a tin of watercolours balanced on his knee as he captures butterflies dancing among the flowers. And there are flowers everywhere.

Bucky barely even noticed it at first, Steve would come to the shop with the odd envelope of seeds, or a clump of something he had found while out painting in the fields. They weren't the garish, frothy pink and yellow flowers that grew in tubs around the village square. Bucky didn’t mind them so much, just found them too bright, too showy. Steve brought buttery yellow marigolds and ox-eye daisies, deep purple violets and sweet scented woodruff. Day by day, week by week, the garden’s dense swathe of green herbs was picked out with hazy little patches of blue and yellow and white.  
They all had some magical properties, as all growing things do, but Bucky never really used them, as there were already herbs that were more effective (though not necessarily better). He said as much the day Steve brought him a clump of speedwell, carefully wrapped in damp paper, the tiny blue and yellow flowers facing the sun.  
“So don’t grow them for work, grow them because you like them,” Steve said placidly as Bucky carefully planted them on the edge of the lawn, where they could spread out and twist their delicate flowers between the blades of grass. “You deserve nice things, Bucky.”  
For some reason that Bucky can’t pinpoint, Steve words linger, echoing around his thoughts long after the day is done.

***

The days grow longer, stretching out their fingers as spring eases into summer. After the endless waiting for winter to end, there are seeds to be sown and plants to be harvested. The storeroom is filled from floor to ceiling with bundles of herbs, the deep, grassy aromas filling the whole cottage.  
Wanda is manning the shop while Bucky is in the workshop, the late afternoon sun streaming through the window as he sorts through a bundle of rosemary. His hat keeps his hair out of his eyes while he works, though the added weight of Noodle wrapped around it makes his shoulders ache a little. He picks off the brittle, needle-sharp leaves and piles them onto a sheet of paper, before adding the stems to the fire. He shakes the paper, lifting it up and curling it into a runnel, and tips the leaves into a glass jar. Before Bucky gets the chance to start work on his next bundle, Steve comes charging into the shop, the door banging open as he stumbles over the threshold.  
“Bucky?” Steve calls, hurrying past Wanda. “Bucky!”  
At the sound of Steve yelling, Bucky seals up his jar of herbs and puts the bundle to one side to deal with later, before pushing the drape that separates shop from workroom aside and going out to see what the trouble is.  
“Steve?” Steve turns to him, panic and relief warring on his features. “What is it?”  
Steve crosses the shop floor, reaching out to him. “You have to come.” Steve grasps his sleeve and pulls, as if to drag Bucky out of the store.  
“Alright, alright,” Bucky says gently. “Tell me what happened.”  
Bucky rubs thumb and forefinger together, pulling them apart to reveal a fine golden thread. He presses it to the back of Steve’s hand, a brief, shining spell for calm and clarity.  
It takes effect almost immediately, and Steve blinks, his scattered thoughts pulling together.  
“There’s a… a spirit or something at the Carter farm. It bit Michael, you need to come-”  
“Wanda,” Bucky says sharply. “Fetch my case.”

With the blackthorn woven through the repaired hedges around the village, forming a barrier against spirits that linger in the woods, attacks are uncommon. Although some spirits are drawn towards people, they are more likely to focus on animals or buildings. Bucky has treated handful of attacks on people in his time, the last being himself. His arm prickles in agitation as he takes his case from Wanda and follows Steve out onto the street. Noodle, still curled tightly around Bucky’s hat, hisses in irritation at being jostled.  
Bucky’s case, a hinged box made of cherrywood and bound with strips of copper, thumps against his leg with every step. The glass jars and bottles within chime and rattle, and Bucky tightens his grip on the thick leather handle as they walk at a brisk pace.  
“Who’s Michael?” Bucky asks as they pick up the pace further along the lane past the village itself, heading towards the forest.  
“Peggy’s brother,” Steve says shortly, his face pale.  
Peggy, Bucky remembers her, the woman from the Spring festival, with her dark curls and red lips.  
Something unpleasant unfurls in Bucky’s chest, lodging itself under his ribs. He forces it down, sour and fleeting, and keeps his mind on the task ahead.

The Carter farm is one of the wealthiest homesteads in the village, owning several fields of cattle and arable crops, and a retinue of staff and farmhands. The manor house is a grander affair than Bucky is used to, a world away from the shabby, cosy farmhouses of villagers like Clint and Dugan. To the side of the manor house is the staff building, housing most of the workers who don’t live in shepherds cottages around the state. Across the courtyard from the main entrance is a set of stables, where a farmhand is leading a pair of horses away. They are panicking, pulling at their reins as he tries to calm them down.  
Bucky hesitates, his instinctual urge to attend to the frightened animals warring with his duties. Noodle slips down from the brim of his hat, curling around his shoulders, and Bucky reaches up to take his weight.  
“Bucky?” Steve stops at the foot of the steps leading to the entrance. “It's this way.”  
After taking a last look at the horses, Bucky follows Steve into the house.  
There is a man waiting at the entrance, tall and thin, his clothes starched and his hair carefully combed and pomaded. He looks upon Bucky with suspicion, taking in his crooked hat and bright yellow snake before turning to Steve.  
“Mr Rogers. I take it this is the… ah… the Witch.”  
Steve nods. “Jarvis, this is Bucky. Bucky, this is Mr Jarvis, the Carter's butler.”  
Bucky has no idea what a butler is, or what they even do, so he bows his head politely. Jarvis, clearly against his personal judgement, opens the door and allows them into the house.  
The entrance hall is grand and imposing, with checkered tile floors and a wide staircase leading to the rooms upstairs. The high, vaulted ceilings are hung with chandeliers, the candles unlit, and Bucky cannot help staring at them as he climbs the stairs. There are paintings on the walls; sombre portraits in gilt edged frames, and the dark wooden floor under Bucky’s muddy boots is worn smooth as glass with a hundred years of footfall.  
Steve seems to know the house well, navigating easily through the warren of rooms without looking to Jarvis to lead the way. Each one is sparsely furnished but richly decorated, with paintings hanging on the walls in gilt frames and heavy brass candlesticks on every surface.

“Peggy!” Steve calls as they enter a bedroom, rushing over to her side. Old, dark wood fills the space like every other part of the house, but it is decorated with warm touches. A rich, red satin quilt on the bed, a portrait hanging above it. In the bed lies a man a few years older than Peggy, sprawled on top of the covers. He is fully dressed, the top buttons of his shirt unfastened, his boots streaking mud across the quilt. Bucky recognises Steve’s hand in the painting above the bed. Peggy, rendered in bold strokes, stands in the frame. Her hand on her hip, her face turned away from the viewer.  
Below it, the real life Peggy sits on the edge of the bed. Both her hands are wrapped around her brothers, whispering to him in earnest. She barely seems to register their arrival, but Bruce, sat on the opposite side of the bed, looks up. He pulls the stethoscope he’s wearing down from his ears, his brow furrowed, and stands to greet them.  
“Thank you for coming.” Bruce reaches out to shake Bucky’s hand, flinching back when he sees the snake winding around his upper arm.  
“He won’t hurt you,” Bucky promises, glancing over to a bench seat by the high window, where Peggy’s blonde haired friend sits, her hands clasped in her lap.  
“Tell me what happened,” Bucky says. “Every last detail.”  
He holds his arm out over the bed, and Noodle slides down onto the muddied satin, keeping clear of Michaels twitching limbs.  
Bucky puts his case on the bedside table, and flicks open the copper clasps.  
“One of the farm hands saw something at the edge of the forest,” Peggy murmurs, as if recalling a dream. “My brother took a horse out to investigate.”  
Bucky bites back a remark. It’s not the time or the place for lectures or warnings. “Go on,” he coaxes, opening up his case. It concertinas out, revealing several compartments filled with vials of oils and jars of herbs and salts.  
“He returned on foot, his horse long gone. He was so pale, he was shaking, and the other horses panicked at the sight of him.”  
Peggy finally looks up, and sees the pale yellow snake crawling up the bed, tongue flicking out to taste the dirt clinging to Michael’s clothes. Her eyes widen, and without warning she lashes out.  
Bucky grabs her wrist before she can strike. Gently, keeping his expression calm and open, he moves her hand away. Steve, standing behind her, puts his hand on her shoulder.  
“It’s alright, Pegs,” he whispers.  
“He means no harm,” Bucky’s grip gentles, his fingers sliding against her wrist. “Let him do his work.”  
Her gaze finally settles on Bucky, on the slouching point of his hat and the wide brim casting a shadow on his features. “You’re the Witch.”  
“I am.”  
She looks down at the snake again, her body tensing as he starts to climbs over Michael’s body. The tremors stop instantly, and Michael stills, his breathing becoming slow and even.  
“Can you save him?” Peggy doesn’t look Bucky’s way again, her eyes only on her brother.  
“Yes.”

With that, Bucky gets to work, taking off his hat and putting it to one side. He starts pulling bottles and jars out of his case.  
“Steve?” he calls softly. “Help me with this.”  
Steve comes over to his side of the bed, and Bucky places a jar of salt in his hands. “Scatter this across the doors and windows, the fireplace. If there’s any way out of this room, you need to block it.”  
Steve gives a sharp nod, and gets to work.  
Noodle climbs further along Michael’s body, curling up on his chest. Bucky picks another vial out of the case and pulls out the cork. The room fills with a sharp, grassy aroma underlaid with a salt and sea breeze. He pours a little of the oils into his hands, massaging it into his skin.  
“Noodle, have you found it?” Bucky rolls up his sleeves, revealing the darkened skin and threads of silvery scars covering his left arm.  
Noodle raises his head, his jaws unhinging in a yawn.  
Steve comes back with an empty jar, and Bucky drops it into the case, checking through the spirit bottles in the bottom compartment until he finds one large enough.  
“Your brother picked up a spirit in the forest,” Bucky explains to Peggy, setting the jar on the side of the bed. “It’s in his lungs.”  
“How on earth did that happen?” Bruce asks. “I’ve only heard of spirits haunting places.”  
“He was on horseback, yes?” Bucky opens the jar, and tucks the glass stopper in his pocket. “If it was a malevolent, hiding in the trees, and saw an agitated man riding hard through the forest? That would have caught its interest.”  
“The Woodsman!” Peggy sits up straighter. “He will pay for-”  
“The Woodsman is no part of this!” Bucky snaps. “The forest is his domain, and your brother entered without invite or consent. What happened to him is his own doing.”  
Peggy’s mouth opens and closes, and she turns away.  
“The compact between forest and farmland is an old one, formed when the stones that built your house were still buried in the earth,” Bucky says gently. “We honour this. Do you understand?”  
Peggy swallows, and nods. “I understand.”  
“Thank you.” Bucky gives her a soft smile. “I need you to step away now.”

Steve comes back to Peggy’s side, and with gentle hands pulls her away from her brother.  
Bucky gives them a last look, making sure they are keeping their distance. Bruce stands a pace or two away, curious to see what happens next.  
Bucky closes his eyes, and focuses on his breathing as he works the spell. For long minutes he thinks only of drawing air into his lungs, and pushing it out again. His heart slows, little by little, until it matches Michael’s beat for beat. Bucky doesn’t think about the scars on his arm, the lightning strikes that prickles and burn. He doesn’t think about the blonde moving from the window to stand at Peggy's side, or the way Steve grasps her hand.  
He reaches out, hands splayed and hovering over Michael’s stomach, just below where Noodle is curled up. He can feel the spirit, squatting in the man's lungs, slowly suffocating him. Although it is unformed, there is something vine-like about it, a winding, smothering energy that sets Bucky’s teeth on edge. He pushes, forcing the spirit up, and his arm starts to ache.  
Noodle unwinds from Michael’s chest, flowing up his body in a smooth, sinuous glide before settling in a halo around his head, and Bucky drags his hands over Michael’s chest, the skin of his palms barely skimming the man's clothes.  
The spirit fight him every inch, pushing back as Bucky draws it into Michael’s throat. Sweat beads on Bucky’s forehead, dripping into his eyes and making them sting. He pauses, the only way for the spirit to come out is how it came in, and Bucky can’t afford to take it slow, lest the man choke.  
With a quick twist of his wrists, Bucky forces the spirit up. His arm burns, a sudden, searing heat that feels like his shirtsleeves might catch alight, and on the bed, Michael starts to thrash wildly.  
“Hold him down!” Bucky yells, and Peggy is the first to reach his side. She needs no further instruction, and puts her hands on her brothers shoulder, forcing him down with all her strength.  
Bruce is quick to take the other thrashing arm, and Steve braces his knees, forcing his legs down. Pinned in place, Michael twitches and shudders as the spirit, with no other place to turn, bursts out of his mouth.

Michael’s head snaps back, his mouth dropping open, and a cloud of oily black smoke pours out of him.  
It rushes forth blindly, seeking out shelter, and spirals in a narrow column upwards before twisting its way towards Peggy.  
“Don’t you bloody dare!” she snarls, and Bucky reaches out to stop it.  
For all Bucky’s speed, and the firm grip he takes of the swirling, writhing mass, he does not strangle the spirit, or harm it. It whips around in his hand, twisting and lengthening itself, its nascent tail curling around his wrist, trying to lever itself free. Sweat trickles down Bucky’s back, soaking into his shirt, his breath coming in short, stuttering gasps.  
Michael coughs and shudders as the last of the tremors fade, and Peggy whispers to him, stroking back his hair from his sweat-soaked forehead.  
“Steve?” Bucky doesn’t dare take his eyes off the spirit. In his hold it is growing longer, and the pain in his arm is becoming unbearable, black spots creeping into the edge of his vision.  
“What?” Steve is at his side. “What do you need?”  
“The bottle.”  
The pain has spread to his right arm, and Bucky has to keep blinking to clear his vision as burst of light flicker and burn behind his eyes. His hand is numb where the spirit is wrapped around it, it’s tail thrashing. Steve holds up the bottle, expecting Bucky to force the spirit inside. Such an act would be an unkindness, an imprisonment. Instead Bucky opens his hand, and hopes for the best.

Upon release the spirit does not flee, or try to attack. It winds itself around Bucky’s wrist, a loosely hanging, tapering point hanging down at one end, a blunt, wedge-shaped one at the other.  
It stretches out to the lip of the bottle, nosing at the glass, and quickly slides in.  
Bucky pulls the stopper out of his pocket, and seals the bottle closed.  
“Alright,” he says, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “It’s done.”  
He reaches down to where Noodle is still curled around Michael’s head, and the snake rises up to meet him, flowing up his outstretched arm and around his shoulders. Bucky steps away from the bed, taking the bottle from Steve and cradling it in his arms. The spirit within touches its face to the glass, watching the way Noodle winds around Bucky’s shoulders.  
“Dr Banner,” Bucky’s voice sounds strange to his own ears, low and rasping. He nods towards the bed. “He’s in your hands now.”  
“That was remarkable!” Bruce enthuses. “I have never seen anything like it, I don’t even know how I would treat it.”  
“He’ll have a sore throat,” Bucky retreats to the window, and sits down heavily on the ledge. His body aches, the sweat on his skin cooling and becoming unpleasantly sticky, and his hands shake with tension, nerve endings thrumming. His left arm is numb, as though there is nothing below his shoulder at all.  
“And some inflammation of the lungs, no doubt.” Bruce puts his stethoscope in his ears and listens to Michaels heartbeat, while Peggy and Steve crowd around him.

“Bucky, was it?”  
Bucky startles, his hold on the bottle tightening. When had he closed his eyes?  
The woman, Peggy’s friend, is looking at him with concern.  
“Yeah. Yes.” Bucky sits up a little straighter.  
“You alright, hon? You need the Doc?”  
Bucky blinks a couple of times, struggling to focus on Bruce and his patient. “I’m fine,” he promises. “I just need a minute. Um.” He can’t remember her name, or if they were ever introduced.  
He looks at her doubtfully, and she gives him a bright smile. “Angie.”  
“Peggy’s friend,” Bucky says, and Angie shrugs.  
“Something like that.” She tips her head to the side. “You sure you’re okay?”  
“I just need a minute,” Bucky repeats. If he says it enough, it might become truth. “I’m fine.”  
She doesn’t look convinced, and sits down beside him. “Can I?” She nods towards Noodle, a comforting weight on Bucky’s shoulders, keeping him grounded.  
Bucky nods, and Angie lightly brushes a finger along Noodle’s side.  
“I thought Witches all had cats,” she says. “I ain’t never touched a snake before, thought it would be slimy.”  
“Noodle’s a good boy,” Bucky murmurs absently.  
“He sure is.” Angie keeps her eyes on Bucky. “Pretty, ain’t it?”  
Bucky is leaning against the window, the glass cold against his back. Though he is facing the painting, his eyes do not see it, and it takes him a little too long to catch her meaning.  
“Yes.” Bucky nods. “It’s one of Steve’s, right?”  
“Yeah, he painted it before his mother got sick.” Angie watches Peggy as she fusses over her brother. “He gonna be okay?”  
Bucky nods. He’s exhausted, deep in his soul, and suddenly, desperately, doesn’t want to be in this room anymore.

It is short work to collect up his bottles and fill up his case, the spirit tucked away in the dark where it won’t be disturbed on the walk home. Angie thanks him again as he fits his hat over his head, tugging the brim down. Peggy and Bruce are still preoccupied, their attention on Michael slowly as he starts to come round. Bruce sends Jarvis to fetch hot water, and Steve stays at Peggy’s side, his hand on her shoulder, and she leans into the comfort he offers. The ache that blossoms in Bucky’s chest is a small thing compared to the tremors in his body, the sweat cooling his skin, the sharp ache of his arm. But it is different, an ache in his soul. Bucky can tend to the wounds of his body, but his own spirit is another matter, and he quietly gathers his belongings.  
Michael opens his eyes, calling for his sister, his voice wrecked and barely audible, and Bucky slips from the room.  
A Witch does not seek riches for their work, or rewards. So why does it feel so _unfair_ to track his way back through the rooms alone? To climb down the grand stairs and heave open the heavy oak doors.  
Noodle winds around his aching arm, the weight of him pulling Bucky down to earth.  
_I’m just tired_ , Bucky tells himself. _That’s all it is._

Outside the horses are still agitated, rearing up and kicking out as the stable hands tries to calm them down. Bucky watches them for a moment before placing his case on the ground.  
Noodle hisses as Bucky unwinds him from his wrist, and lays him down on top of the case. “You can’t come with me,” Bucky strokes the snakes side. “You’ll only scare them.”  
Noodle wraps himself up in a tight little tangle, and Bucky covers him with his hat before walking over to the horses.  
He moves slowly, keeping in their line of sight, and when they see him he starts to nod his head, his hair falling in a curtain over his face. He stamps on the cobblestones with his feet, while the stable hands watch him in confusion, edging closer and closer to the panicking horses.  
“Mister?” one of them calls out. “Mister, you need to stay back.”  
The other hand shushes him, recognising the Witch, and when Bucky gestures for them to drop the reins, they let go.  
The horses toss their heads and harrumph, still skittish, and Bucky stops, his side to them, and waits.  
The larger of the two, a chestnut mare, edges towards him, still huffing and stamping her hooves, until Bucky is close enough to lean against her flank. He keeps his hands by his side, his head bowed, and lets her take his weight a little.  
Both horses settle, moving around him to nose at his hair and sniff at his clothes, and Bucky finally reaches up to them, stroking their long, graceful necks and scratching them in the places they can’t reach.  
“Well, I’ll be damned,” one of the stable hands scratches his head. “You must be a Witch.”  
Bucky murmurs to the horses, soothing them with words and touch, and finding comfort in return.

“Bucky?”  
The horses chuff and toss their manes, and Bucky looks up to see Steve waiting by his case and hat, watching them closely.  
Bucky gives the horses a last pat, and walks over to join him. “Is Michael alright?”  
Steve nods, though he still looks worried. “You. You left.”  
Bucky picks up his hat, brushing dirt off the brim before putting it on. Noodle raises his head hopefully, and Bucky picks him up too. Steve’s gaze follows his movements, lingering on the silver threads on his arm.  
“The horses,” Bucky says. It’s a poor excuse but Steve accepts it.  
“I saw.” Steve looks at where the stable hands are leading the calm horses back to the stables. “That was remarkable.”  
Bucky picks up his case, mindful of the spirit within. “I should be going.”  
The worry returns full force to Steve’s features, furrowing his brow. “Are you okay?”  
“I’m fine.” _Lies_. “Just tired.”  
Steve points to the case. “Let me carry that at least.”  
“Really, it’s fine.” Bucky shakes his head. “Best leave it with me.”  
The wrinkle in his brow seems to have taken up permanent residence. “I’ll see you later though, right?” Steve asks cautiously. “And we’re finishing my tags next week?”  
Bucky nods as Noodle curls around his forearm, obscuring his scars.  
“And I need something personal?” Steve asks.  
Bucky frowns. Steve already knows all this, why is he asking again? “To complete the spell? Yes. You need to put a little part of yourself into them, a piece of who you are, to seal the spell.” Bucky rubs his eyes. “A lock of your hair, or your true name, so the old stories go.”  
“I think I can manage hair,” Steve scrubs his fingers through his beard ruefully. “Is that what you did with yours?”  
“No,” Bucky shakes his head. “I used my heart.”  
Steve’s hand rises, as if against his own volition, and clasps around the tags hanging around his neck. “Your heart?” Steve’s eyes widen. “You don’t mean literally?”  
“Witches are very dramatic,” Bucky sighs. “Hawley kept her heart in a little treasure chest. Hiding it in an egg in a duck that swims in a moat around a castle is a popular one too.” Bucky’s mouth twitches up. “But that seems like a lot of work, you know?”  
Steve snorts, letting go of the tags. “I’m glad I don’t have to do that.”  
The weight on Bucky’s shoulders seems to ease a little. “Go see to your friends,” he says gently. “I’ll see you later, alright?”  
With that, Bucky turns away and starts walking home.

Before anything; before moving the new spirit to a larger, more permanent bottle, before checking through his case and refilling it, Bucky decides to take a shower.  
He lets Noodle wraps around the bannister, giving him a last, light stroke, and sets his case on his desk.  
He slumps up the stairs, kicking off his boots at the top step and letting them clatter across the floor, and makes his weary way to the bathroom.  
The soot spirits could provide hot water, there is enough heat in the fire for them to work with, but Bucky needs cold water, he has had enough of burning.  
He strips off his clothes and turns on the tap, and steps under the spray.  
For a long time, too long, he stands with his head bowed, cold water running in rivulets down his body, soaking his hair. The water washes away the dirt and the sweat and the last, lingering tremors of adrenaline. It cools the fire coursing over his skin, it eases the ache deep in his bones, and outside the window the day draws to an end, and the moon rises.  
The pale, honey light filters through the spray, painting Bucky in silver and cream, and he turns off the water at last, bathing himself in moonlight.  
He draws his hand down each arm in turn, checking the pull of tendon and flex of muscle, the density and delicacy of bone and sinew.  
The light on his skin shines like silver, like stars. And Bucky thinks of his tags, strips of silver, carefully inscribed and hanging around someone else's neck. His heart lies within those thin slices of isipho, his heart and he gave it away.


	4. The Woodsman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky hated flying.  
> That wasn’t entirely true. On a clear, sunny day, when there were no migrating geese or swarms of bees or strong north-westerly gales, when there were no tall trees whipping in the wind, knocking him about like a shuttlecock in an enthusiastic game of badminton, Bucky was okay with flying.  
> No. Not true either.  
> Bucky was okay with flying, it was _falling_ he didn’t like.  
>  Landing he wasn’t fond of either, but that was just another kind of falling.

“I’m coming with you.”  
Steve folds his arms across his chest, his chin jutting out as if daring Bucky to argue.  
“You don’t even know where I’m going,” Bucky sighs, wrapping a loaf of bread in a clean cloth and putting it in his bag. Cinnamon pokes her nose under the flap, looking for treats, and Bucky picks up the bag and puts it on the desk, out of her reach.  
“You’re going into the forest,” Steve says grimly. “And I’m coming with you.”  
Bucky adds a little paper-wrapped wheel of goats cheese to the bag. After dealing with the fire spirit the dairy keep bringing him cheese, more than they could possibly ever eat, despite Pietro’s enthusiastic attempts. “The forest is dangerous, which is why you’re staying here.”  
Steve lets out a frustrated huff, casting around for a reason, however much of a reach it is, to tag along.  
While Michael is recovering well from his encounter with the forest spirit, his horse has not returned. And Bucky, fool he is, volunteered to go into the forest and find it.  
“You said yourself it’s not safe,” Steve’s voice pitches up a little in frustration.  
“I said it’s not safe for you.” Bucky packs away the last of his gifts, a small flask of wine, and closes his bag. “I’ll be fine.”  
Cinnamon paws at Bucky’s leg, and he reaches down to stroke her between the ears.  
“I have my tags.” Steve taps his chest, where Bucky’s tags lie just over his heart. “And I have you.”  
Bucky’s stomach flip-flips down to his boots. He hides it by pursing his lips. “It’s half a day’s walk to even get there.”  
“Not if we fly.” Steve’s eyes light up at the suggestion. “We’d be there in half the time.”  
He has a point. By broom they could be in the Woodsman’s realm within an hour, but Bucky wasn’t about to tell Steve that.  
“If we fly we will crash and die,” Bucky says instead. “Do you want to crash and die, Steve?”  
Steve’s expression turns fond. “You’d get us there safe, Buck. I know you will.”  
Down in the soles of his boots, Bucky’s stomach gives a last, weak little cramp before giving up. _Damnation_.

At Cinnamon’s whine, Bucky takes a jar off one of the bookcases, the one with her name scrawled over the label, and unscrews the lid. There is a strong waft of earthy, sweet aroma as he holds the jar out, and the raccoon grabs it with both paws before rushing for the door. The last time Bucky gave her a whole jar, Steve confiscated it, and she doesn’t want to give him another chance.  
“Bucky,” Steve sighs. “All that peanut butter can’t be good for her.”  
Bucky raises an eyebrow. “She eats _frogs_ , Steve.”  
Steve huffs and takes Bucky’s bag, looping it over his shoulder. “So turn me into a frog. I’m still coming with you.”  
Bucky ignores him and takes a last look around the workshop. The fire is banked and the desk is cleared. Out front Wanda is manning the shop, and Pietro has a list of tasks as long as his arm. Bucky had been almost ready to walk out the door when Steve showed up, worried out of his mind that he might already be gone.  
Bucky could still walk out the door. He has enough food for the journey, there’s nothing to keep him hanging around. So why is he still here?  
“If I leave, you’re just going to follow me, aren’t you?” Bucky mutters, but he already knows the answer.  
Steve adjusts the bag, sitting the weight of it on his hip. “Yes.”  
“Fine.” Bucky sighs. “But if we fall out of the sky I’m personally blaming you. For everything.”  
Steve beams, his smile like sunshine breaking through rain clouds. “Sure thing, Buck.”

There are many arts to Witchcraft; from healing the sick to divining the future, bringing new growth, or ending them. But Witches are known for riding broomsticks.  
In every storybook read to children, every painting, every legend retold, a Witch rides out. In some rare instances they travel on enchanted rugs, or in the bowl of a pestle and mortar. But the image of a Witch on a broomstick, a cat perched on the bristles, is a potent one, and thus all Witches must learn to ride.  
Bucky learned the Craft on a spur of land jutting out into the North sea, where the wind howled and the storms lashed the shore. And broomsticks were tossed around by the winds like a handful of straw.  
Being the son of a fisherman, he was a strong swimmer, and could navigate by the sun and stars. So when the wind flung him around and crashed his broom into the waves, he could swim to the shore. When storms drove him inland, half-blinded by the rain, and crashed him into the dense pine trees, he could shelter until the storm passed, and find his way back.  
Bucky hated flying.  
That wasn’t entirely true. On a clear, sunny day, when there were no migrating geese or swarms of bees or strong north-westerly gales, when there were no tall trees whipping in the wind, knocking him about like a shuttlecock in an enthusiastic game of badminton, Bucky was okay with flying.  
No. Not true either.  
Bucky was okay with flying, it was _falling_ he didn’t like.  
Landing he wasn’t fond of either, but that was just another kind of falling.

The broomstick is leaning against the wall in the shop, where customers could see it and be reassured that _yes, this must be a proper Witch_ , as if the pointy hat and the ability to conjure light out of thin air wasn’t proof enough.  
The broom has been left untouched since Bucky arrived in the village, and he gives it a wipe down, carefully removing the spiders that have taken up residence in the bristles.  
Steve, waiting in the doorway with Bucky’s bag, watches intently as he runs his fingers over the old, salt-stained wood. If it were anyone else, Bucky would already be walking to the forest. But it’s Steve, so he heaves a last, troubled sigh, and takes the broom by the handle.  
“Alright, let’s get this over with.”  
Wanda and Pietro follow them out the front door, huddling together on the doorstep and jostling each other with excitement while Steve goes over to join him.  
“You remember the rules?” Bucky asks. Again.  
“Hold on tight, and keep my feet tucked in,” Steve replies quickly. “No leaning over, no matter how interesting things are below.”  
“No looking down at all,” Bucky mutters.  
“Buck,” Steve chides.  
“Fine, look down then, but don’t blame me if you throw up.” Bucky holds the broom horizontally, gauging the height. “What else?”  
“Watch out for geese,” Steve finishes.  
Bucky hums noncommittally, and climbs onto the broom. He pulls the brim of his hat down and shuffles forward a little, making room for Steve to sit behind him while still having a firm grip on the handle, and gives Steve a look over his shoulder. “Are you coming or what?”

Steve checks that the bag is secure before throwing his leg over the broom and positioning himself behind Bucky. He crouches awkwardly, his knees slightly bent, one hand on Bucky’s shoulder.  
“You, uh…” Bucky bites his lip. “You might want to… adjust yourself.”  
“What?”  
Bucky shakes the broomhandle slightly, and widens his eyes. Steve lets out a startled little ‘Oh!’ and Bucky politely looks away while he shifts around, putting his hand down the front of his trousers and moving anything he doesn’t what smacked with a broom handle out of the way. Wanda giggles on the doorstep, her hand covering her mouth, while Pietro laughs openly.  
“Once learned, never forgotten,” Bucky says ruefully, facing forward.  
Steve coughs out a laugh, his cheeks staining pink. He hesitates before putting his hand back on Bucky’s shoulder. “Okay,” he says, clearing his throat. “I’m ready.”  
Bucky nods, sitting up a little straighter. He closes his eyes, and draws in a deep breath.  
_Gulls soaring over the cottage, their wings spread._  
The bristles of the room rustle, as if caught in a summer breeze.  
_Fallen leaves on the grass, carried aloft by the wind, returning them to the skies._  
The wooden handle trembles, and Steve tightens his grip on Bucky’s shoulder. “Bucky?”  
Bucky’s eyes snap open, and the broom launches them into the air.

Steve lets out a yelp, throwing his arms around Bucky’s shoulders as they soar up. The ground careens away as the broom spins, sky below them, earth above, the wind buffeting them and pushing them off course. They spin in midair, and Bucky risks taking one hand off the broom to clamp his hat to his head.  
“Hold on!” Bucky yells over his shoulder, and Steve clamps his arms around Bucky, all previous shyness forgotten in the face of danger. Bucky ducks his head, moving with the wind, and pulls on the broom, forcing it level.  
Up above the treeline the winds are stronger, tugging at Bucky’s jacket and the brim of his hat. The broom kicks and bucks in his hands like a wild horse, and Bucky needs both hands to hold on. Brute force will not help him up here, where wind and weather rules, and he rides it out as best as he can, feeling his way through the eddy and flow of energies.  
Steve clings to him, legs twitching, and the weight of him should be a hindrance, should throw him off course, but it doesn’t. Instead he offers balance, provides leverage. He is a solid, immutable force to brace against and fly into the wind.  
Bucky feels it rather than sees it, stretching out with his senses. A rise of warm air flowing up from the hills, heading towards the forest. He guides the broom forwards, settling in to the warmer current. The broom stops shaking at last, and he pushes up the brim of his hat, smiling to himself. Steve’s grip around his shoulders doesn’t lessen, his knuckles white.  
“Okay,” Bucky lets out a sigh of relief. “That wasn’t so bad. You alright back there Steve?”  
Steve lets out a muffled yell, his face pressed between Bucky’s shoulder blades.  
“What-” Bucky tries to look over his shoulder, and catches sight of the clouds down to the right of them. “Ah. Okay. Soon fix that.” He shifts his grip on the broom and swings his leg out. “Hold on!” he shouts cheerfully, and throws his weight to the side.  
The broom spins and Steve lets out a low moan, sharply cut off when Bucky twists back the other way, halting the spin once the world is facing the right way.

“C’mon, Steve,” Bucky jostles him, and Steve lets out a yelp of alarm. “You’re missing the view.”  
Steve loosens his death grip around Bucky, his knees clamped against the broom, his face tucked to the nape of Bucky’s neck, sheltering under the wide brim of his hat.  
“We’re the right way up, this time. I promise.” Bucky reaches back and pats Steve’s leg.  
He’s warm, even up where the air is cold and clear, and Bucky’s hand lingers on the taut, dense muscle of his thigh, before snatching his hand away guiltily.  
Steve slowly unfurls, his body uncurling like a fern. Bucky hears his sharp intake of breath, the clench and release of his hands as he looks down.  
“Oh,” Steve whispers.  
Above them are blue skies and soft, wispy clouds, and the world stretches out below them, a patchwork of greens and yellows like a great quilt, stitched together with dense green hedgerows.  
They are still in sight of the village, the houses and farm buildings scattered below them like toys on a rug. The river winds through the land in a shining silver thread, growing wide and narrow as it flows out to sea. In the pale green fields, sheep wander aimlessly, and Bucky can see the spirit sheep moving among Barton’s livestock.  
The clouds above them cast shadows over the land, and Bucky watches as their own silhouette flies over the fields of wheat and barley, their tall green stems touched with gold.

The grip on Bucky finally loosens, and Steve leans into him, his hands, warm and broad, splayed across his chest. “Beautiful,” Steve sighs, pressing his cheek to Bucky’s shoulder.  
Bucky swallows, trying to dispel the tightness in his throat, but it sends roots down to his chest, winding around his ribs, filling the place where his heart should be.  
The sensation is too much, too sweet to bear. Like eating too much candy, or a ship sighted on the horizon after a long night of watching, and tears prick at Bucky’s eyes.  
He wipes them away quickly, before they can be noticed, and points the broom towards the forest.  
The trees, a dense green thicket compared to the the neatly laid out squares of farmland, reveals nothing. Steve leans over a little, his knees tucked against the back of Bucky’s thighs as he tries to see beyond the canopy.  
There are paths through the forest, barely discernible from above, and the river threads through the green, giving way to long lakes and shallow pools.  
Bucky’s shoulders start to ache from the strain, his left arm prickling, and he thinks there must be rain coming. He looks up at the clouds and sees them starting to gather, dense and smudged with grey, and hopes that they will pass quickly.

“Steve?” Bucky reaches back to tap Steve’s leg, and doesn’t let himself linger. “We’re going down, so hold on.”  
“Already?” Steve asks. “But it’s barely been an hour?”  
Bucky shrugs, as best as he can. “Broom is faster.”  
Steve frowns, and Bucky can’t really blame him. “And you were going to walk.”  
“Yeah,” Bucky braces himself. “Still got to land, so hold off any judgements until then, alright?”  
The frown stays put. “What do you need?”  
Bucky looks down at the trees, and the narrow, meandering strip of ground between them. “Uh. If I say jump, you jump.”  
“Bucky…”  
“It’ll be fine,” Bucky says, though not with much conviction. “And if it’s not fine, it’ll be quick?”  
Steve hums, unconvinced, but grips Bucky’s waist.  
“Okay,” Bucky tugs down the brim of his hat. “Here we go.”  
Bucky pushes down on the broom, a little too sharply, and they drop like a stone.  
The wind rushes past them, tugging on Bucky’s hat and snapping at his clothes, his ears popping with the change in pressure and speed. The weight of Steve against his back seems to force him down faster, and Bucky bites out a curse, the words twisting in his mouth and fluttering against his lips, slipping away before he can catch it.  
_Fuck_.  
Bucky throws his weight back, pressing into Steve and bracing against him, using him as a counterweight against the pull of gravity. The broom dips below the treeline before it levels out, and Bucky twists sharply, skimming the edge of the trees and getting slapped with long, whipcord branches.  
“Ow!” he yelps, covering his face with his hand as he tries to keep on track, and from the muffled thumps behind him he guesses that Steve is taking a beating too.  
Another branch whacks him full in the face, and Bucky spits out a mouthful of leaves.  
“Steve?” he yells over the rustle and crack of branches around them. “Hold on!”  
The hold around Bucky’s waist tightens as Bucky picks out a patch of dirt below, and points the broom down. The ground comes rushing towards them, and at the last second he kicks out his foot and drags the broom around, coming down sideways and driving his foot into the dirt like a handbrake.  
Getting the angle wrong would mean a broken leg, a lesson Bucky knows too well, but he skims along the surface, his heavy leather boots ploughing up a trench in the earth. Steve catches onto the idea quickly, and throws out his own legs, knees bent to absorb the impact, and the broom comes to a standstill at last.

Bucky’s boots are full of dirt, and half buried in the dry, red earth of the forest. But at least he’s still wearing them.  
“Steve?” he says softly, and gets a grunt of acknowledgement. “Still think this was a good idea?”  
Steve shuffles off the back of the broom, and stands up straight, pulling on the strap of Bucky’s bag and checking the contents are still intact.  
“Yes,” he says primly, smoothing down the front of his shirt.  
There are leaves in his hair and a smear of dirt on his cheek, and fondness swells in Bucky’s chest, cracking apart the brittle tangle of roots.  
“Well, that’s something,” Bucky says softly and lets the broom drop to the floor.  
He sits down on the forest floor and pulls off a boot, upending it and giving it a shake. A handful of dirt tumbles out, and Bucky smacks the heel a few times until he’s certain it’s empty, before putting it back on and doing the same with the other boot. He takes off his hat and gives it a shake, plucking at the twigs embedded in the slumped point.  
“Bucky?” Steve says warily.  
“This was your idea,” Bucky grouses, and shoves the hat back on his head. “So you’re not allowed to complain.”  
“Bucky,” Steve says a little more sharply.  
Bucky looks up and sees the figure standing in the clearing. The Woodsman.

He is tall and broad, a mountain of a man dressed in armour fashioned from hardened sheets of wood. There is a collar of moss around his neck, and heavy, spiked vambraces covering his forearms. His skin, the colour of rich, dark earth, is decorated with daubs of red and blue.  
At his waist is a kilt of woven grasses, and in his right hand he carries a long handled club, which he stamps on the compacted dirt at his feet.  
“Who dares to cast curses upon this sacred land?” the man roars.  
“Oh.” Bucky raises a hand, scrambling to his feet. “That would be me.”  
The man frowns, raising the club again. “You dare to bring dishonour to Jabari land?”  
“No,” Bucky shakes his head. “I mean no dishonour. I just… well, flew into a tree and it kind of slipped out.”  
The man glares at Bucky, his grip on the club tightening, and Steve pushes forward, putting himself between them.  
“We meant no harm!” Steve says, his voice rising. “If you have a problem with that, well you can take it up with me.”  
Bucky hisses at Steve, who brushes him off, straightening to his full height.  
Steve is tall, yes, but not as tall as the Woodsman, or as strong. But he doesn’t back down when the Woodsman starts to walk towards them, club striking the dirt with every step.  
Bucky grabs Steve’s sleeve and pulls, but he doesn’t give way.  
“Steve,” Bucky hisses. “This is how you get punched in the face by a city boy.”  
The Woodsman stops and takes a long, hard look at Steve before he bursts out laughing.

To Bucky’s surprise, the Woodsman spears his club in the earth and sits down on the mossy trunk of a long-fallen tree. He whoops with laughter, slapping his muscular thighs and rubbing tears from his eyes.  
“It’s not that funny,” Steve mutters irritably.  
“Yes it is,” the Woodsman wheezes.  
Bucky puts his hand on Steve’s shoulder and gives him a comforting pat.  
“I have heard tale of you,” the Woodsman pulls himself together, shifting on his log like he was sprawled on a golden throne. “Defending the honour of your Witch.”  
“What?” Bucky snaps.  
The Woodsman points to Bucky. “And you did not know?” he asks, before erupting into fresh gales of laughter.  
“Steve?”  
Bucky turns to Steve, who flushes crimson from his apple cheeks to the V of chest visible under his shirt.  
“Rollins was saying… bad things about you.” Steve scuffs his boots across the floor.  
“Bad things?” Bucky asks slowly, and Steve nods, somehow managing to look even more mortified.  
The Woodsman lets out a shrill giggle, and Bucky clamps his teeth together. As badly as he wants to ask Steve exactly what has been going on, he doesn’t want to do it in company. 

“Okay, well what’s done is done,”Bucky sighs, and waves for Steve to pass him the bag.  
The Woodsman looks disappointed that the entertainment has come to an end, but sits up a little when Bucky turns to face him.  
“Bucky Barnes,” he bows his head. “I’m the village Witch of-”  
“I know exactly who you are,” the Woodsman grins. “ _Siqhwithi somoya_. Stormchaser.”  
“I prefer Bucky.”  
The Woodsman holds up a hand, a smile still tugging at his generous mouth. “Bucky.”  
“Thank you.” Bucky bows his head again.  
“M’Baku.” The Woodsman slaps his open hand against his chest. “Woodsman of the Jabari.”  
“It’s an honour.” Bucky tugs Steve’s arm and gives him a pointed look.  
“Oh. Uh. Steve Rogers. Pleased to meet you.” Steve dips his head, and M’Baku inclines his in return.  
Bucky takes the loaf of bread out of his bag and places it before M’Baku, who rubs his hands together gleefully as cheese and wine are added to the pile.  
“Are you trying to bribe me?” he asks, his eyes shining.  
Bucky thinks about it and figures honesty is the best policy. “Yes. A little.”  
M’Baku lets out a bark of laughter, and picks up the loaf, unwrapping one end and tearing off a sizeable chunk. He gives it a sniff, and crams it into his mouth, letting out a happy little sigh as he chews.  
“Don’t you want to know what I’m after first?” Bucky asks skeptically.  
“Your heart is oak.” M’Baku gives Bucky a sly look. “Though not where I would expect it to be. I have nothing to fear from you.”  
Bucky pushes back the brim of his hat, and tries not to think too hard on that comment. Is it that obvious?  
“One of the villagers came through here on a horse.”  
M’Baku’s expression sours. “He did not follow the laws of the land and he paid the price.”  
“He has been made aware of that,” Bucky says quietly. “And the spirit that latched onto him is in my care now.”  
While Bucky speaks M’Baku sets to work on the wheel of cheese. “Good luck with that,” he says, his mouth full.  
“There was also a horse…”  
M’Baku pauses in his chewing, a thoughtful look on his face. As if the forest was full of so many horses that it was hard to keep track of them all. “A horse, you say? What did it look like?”  
Bucky huffs. “Four legs and mad as a brush, it was a horse.”  
“I’m kidding!” M’Baku giggles. “Yes, I know the horse.”  
“So we can have it back?” Steve asks.  
Bucky gives him a sharp glance, but M’Baku waves a cheese smeared hand magnanimously. “You can have it back.”

There is no way they can take a horse back to the village on a broom, so when one of the Jubari brings it to them, brushed and well fed, Steve climbs up into the saddle, Bucky’s bag of provisions over his shoulder. In the meantime the clouds overhead have grown darker, and there is a light patter of rain against the canopy of leaves. Steve tugs the collar of his shirt tight and gives Bucky a last look, before tapping his heels to the horses sides, and trotting down the path towards the village.  
Bucky watches the path long after he has disappeared from sight, rubbing at his left arm absently as the rain continues to fall.  
“A good man, your Steve,” M’Baku says thoughtfully. “Brave, but foolish.”  
“And not mine,” Bucky replies pointedly.  
M’Baku huffs, as if it were no great matter, as though it didn’t gnaw at Bucky’s thoughts night and day.  
“So you say.”  
Bucky turns to him, sharp words crowding the back of his throat. He swallows them in the face of M’Baku’s smile. “Shuri needs to watch her tongue,” he says instead.  
M’Baku laughs, rich and warm. “As if either of us would dare say that to her face.”  
Bucky grumbles, picking up his broom. Steve has been out of his sight for less than half an hour, and has probably picked a fight with a squirrel already.  
“Here.” M’Baku holds out his hand. “A gift, given freely.”  
He splays open his fingers, revealing a small, green stone. There is magic within it, a verdigris spell wrought in spring rain and damp grass.  
“I can’t take this,” Bucky murmurs, and M’Baku laughs softly.  
“Yes you can.”  
Bucky picks up the stone, weighing it in his hand. “Thank you,” he says finally.  
“Eh.” M’Baku waves him off. “Although if you come by any more of that cheese…?”  
“I’ll be sure to send it your way,” Bucky promises.  
M’Baku gives him a slap on the shoulder. “I would invite you to stay and wait out the storm, but…” He gives a meaningful look to the path Steve took. “Fare well, little brother.”  
Bucky gives him a last, polite bow, before climbing onto his broom.

Flight comes a little less easily without company, and Bucky has to steady the broom a few times before kicking off and rising up into the trees.  
He moves cautiously, weaving through the dense foliage towards the strip of grey skies above, and pulls down the brim of his hat to shield his eyes from the rain.  
His arm aches, but it is the dull, muted pain of an old wound. Petrichor fills his senses, the sharp, damp-stone aroma of summer rain, but there is no metallic tang of ozone underneath, no fire in the sky.  
Bucky takes no pleasure in flying in the rain, the steady drizzle soaking through his clothes, the wind chilling him to the core. He sniffs, rubbing at his wet face with his sleeve, and steers his broom up through the clouds.  
For several minutes he is blind, with nothing but grey clouds in every direction. And whoever thought that clouds were soft and fluffy when in truth they are cold and wet, filling his lungs with a chill mist that makes him cough and wheeze.  
At last he breaks through the clouds, water dripping from the brim of his hat. The sun shines brightly, warming his soaking clothes as Bucky pulls the broom level, just above the storm. He dare not go higher, where the air is thinner (and there are more geese to watch out for) but takes off his hat for a while, so he can get a little sun on his face.  
His boots skim through the clouds below, wisps of grey catching at his heels, and Bucky thinks ruefully that at least they’ll be clean when he gets home.

The storm has not passed by the time Bucky reaches the village, and he has to descend through the clouds again, whatever good the sun had done to his clothes undone in moments.  
Bucky shivers as he drops into the clinging mass of grey, his body still sore from the fall through the trees and the endless travelling. He comes out of the clouds a little south of the village, pulling his broom around and flying towards the familiar sight of the cottage.  
Wanda must have closed up for the day when the rain began to fall in earnest, and Bucky doesn’t blame her. He hopes that she is home, safe and dry.  
Steve comes to mind, and Bucky forces the thought away. When he returns to the village he’ll go straight to the Carter farm with their missing horse, he won’t come back to the cottage.  
Bucky drifts down to the garden alongside the cottage, and the broom hovers in midair, rain dripping from the bristles.  
“Come on,” Bucky gives the handle a pat. “Down.”  
The broom shudders, and drops to the ground like a stone. Bucky manages to put his feet out in time, bending his knees to absorb the shock of landing, the heels of his boots slamming into the waterlogged grass. He staggers forward a couple of paces, but manages to remain upright. The last thing he wants is to fall face-first into the lawn, he’d never get up again.  
He puts the broom over his shoulder and pushes his way into the cottage.

The fire is still burning, the flames low and cherry-red. Bucky props the broom up against the wall where it can dry off, and pulls his chair in front of the fire before sitting down. He takes off his hat and wrings out the point, grimacing at the puddle of water that forms between his feet.  
One by one the little soot spirits come tumbling down the chimney, and cluster warily along the edge of the rapidly spreading puddle around him. They cheep softly, nudging against Bucky’s soaking boots.  
“Alright,” Bucky sighs, bending down to pull at the laces and kick off each stiff, heavy boot. “I hear you.”  
His socks are equally drenched, and leave wet footprints on the stone tiles as he walks across the workshop floor and climbs the stairs to bed.

***

Bucky sleeps fitfully, shivering so hard that his teeth rattle, no matter how many blankets he piles on the bed. His clothes, piled in a heap on the floor, seep water onto the floorboards, and Bucky should get up, should put them in the sink and get them cleaned, but instead he rolls over and tries to go back to sleep.  
“Bucky?” A hand, warm and delicate, pushes the damp hair out of Bucky’s eyes, teasing through the tangles and snags. “You’re burning up.”  
Wanda. Wanda sitting on the edge of his bed, pressing the back of her hand to his forehead.  
Bucky tries to insist that he’s fine, but only a rasp and a cough comes out.  
“Shh,” Wanda says gently. “Stay there, I’ll make you some tea.”  
Bucky sits up, pulling the blankets up to cover his bare chest. “Mmn.” He feels awful, like something crawled down his throat and died. “‘M fine.”  
He coughs, and there’s a rattle in his chest like a barrel of rocks being rolled down a hill. “Ow.”  
Wanda appears a few minutes later, carrying a cup of herbal tea. He coughs again, tasting bile, and maybe whatever’s stuck in his throat isn’t quite dead yet.  
“Drink this,” Wanda places the cup in his shaking hands. “It’s mint and yarrow.”  
Bucky can barely taste the tea, but it’s hot and soothing on his throat, and he clutches the cup to his chest long after it’s empty, soaking up the last traces of heat.  
“Get some sleep.” Wanda gently pushes him down onto the bed.  
“I-” Bucky shakes his head, and winces with the movement. “Ow.”  
“Lie down.” Wanda pulls the blankets around him, tucking and rearranging until he’s cocooned in wool. “I’ll take care of the shop.”  
Bucky grumbles a little, but makes no further attempt to get up, and in moments falls asleep again.

The next few days pass in a fevered, dream-like blur. Bucky is vaguely aware of the passage of time, sometimes he opens his eyes to sunlight streaming through the window, washing the wall above the bed in honey and gold, at others the room is dark, the curtains drawn. For long minutes he lies awake, listening to the sounds of the cottage around him, the creak and sigh of old wood, the fire settling in the grate, before sleep returns to claim him.  
He wakes to cold water, and a soft, damp cloth being drawn across his brow. It is a sweet relief against his skin, sticky with sweat, and Bucky grumbles when it is taken away.  
“Shh,” Steve whispers, rinsing the cloth in the bowl of water at his feet and wringing it out again.  
“Steve?” Bucky rasps as the cloth is pressed to his forehead again. “Did you bring the horse?”  
There is a huff of laughter, and the cloth presses the side of Bucky’s face. “It’s been days, Buck.”  
Bucky frowns. His head aches, and his body complains with every movement, but his thoughts are starting to clear. “Days?”  
Steve nods, rinsing out the cloth again and stroking it along Bucky’s arm, his touch gentle against the lightning-strike scars. “You came down with a fever. Dr Banner left some medicine, but said time and rest was what you really needed.”  
Bucky has a sudden recollection of bitter liquid being spooned into his mouth, and Wanda talking softly, though he couldn’t make out what she was saying.  
“Do you feel like eating?” Steve asks. “Jones brought you some bread when you didn’t come to the market. Or there’s soup if you prefer? Dugan swears by his leek and potato soup.”  
Bucky lets out a low moan, shaking his head at the very idea of food. Pain lances up his spine, and he stops moving. Maybe if he keeps still enough the pain will forget about him and go away.  
Steve rinses out the cloth again and gently wipes Bucky’s hand, cleaning away the dirt and fever-sweat, holding Bucky’s wrist like it was the stem of a rare orchid. Bucky’s stomach lurches when he realises that it’s his scarred arm Steve is holding, and he snatches it away, quickly pulling the blanket over the worst of it.  
“Don’t,” Bucky says roughly. “Don’t look.”  
“It’s okay.” Steve holds up his hand, placating. “Did I hurt you?”  
Bucky shakes his head, even though it hurts to do so. “I don’t…” He has no idea what to say, so falls silent.  
“Here.” Steve folds the cloth and hands it over.  
“Thanks,” Bucky says, and presses it to his face.

When the cloth warms up and no longer offers respite he hands it back, and Steve rinses it out again. There is a cup of water on the floor, and when Bucky gestures for it, Steve brings the cup to his mouth, supporting the base while he sips. When Bucky pulls away, pushing at the cup with his fingertips, Steve puts it back on the floor within easy reach. Bucky doesn’t have to ask for the cloth again, before Steve folds it up and places it in his hands. He presses it over his eyes, cold and soothing, and breathes in the smell of peppermint.  
“I had finished my training,” Bucky says hesitantly. “And went off looking for. I don’t know. Something different, something new.”  
“Bucky. You don’t have to-”  
Bucky holds up a hand, and it wavers in the air between them. “I was _stupid_. Okay? For all the books and all the lessons, I was. Stupid.”  
Steve sits, silent and still, and waits for Bucky to say his piece.  
“I was out walking the world, with no intentions of settling down, and I heard rumours of a lightning spirit.” He holds out the cloth for Steve to soak in water and wring out again. “Rare, dangerous, and exactly the kind of thing an idiot boy would get tangled up in.”  
Pietro comes to mind, far too young and far too smart, and Bucky aches with affection, with fear.  
Steve presses the cloth to the nape of Bucky’s neck, and he tips his head to the side, brushing his hair out of the way. “So you were catching spirits even then?” Steve asks.  
“Hmm.” Bucky closes his eyes, the pain abating. “It’s not catching, it’s… offering an alternative to where they are. Most spirits exist alongside us and you’re not aware of them, it’s only when they’re in distress that they cause trouble.” Bucky’s mouth quirks up. “Sometimes you get malevolents, disquiet spirits that thrive on trouble.”  
“The wraiths,” Steve says softly, and Bucky hums, his head aches too much to nod.  
“This was one of those. It had settled over a farm, driven everyone out.” Bucky grimaces. “All the thatched roofs had burned away, the buildings falling down.”  
The air had been thick with the smell of burnt hair and roasted beef, a combination that still makes Bucky’s stomach turn. The skies overhead were soot and ash, sparks crackling and dancing as the spirit rampaged.  
“What happened?”  
“I thought I could catch it, trap it in a bottle.” Bucky’s mouth twists. “I was wrong.”  
“Bucky,” Steve breathes.  
“It returned to the earth, as all things must do eventually.” Bucky drags his thumb along the silvery scars running down his arm, his head bowed. “But it left me with this.”  
“Bucky,” Steve murmurs, when the silence has dragged on too long. “You are a great Witch.”  
“Oh, I don’t-” Bucky smiles, but there is no humour in it. “I doubt that.”  
“You are,” Steve insists. “You’re the best thing that’s happened to this village. You’re the best thing that’s happened to me.”  
Steve touches his thumb against the hinge of Bucky’s jaw and Bucky turns to him, like a flower drawn to the sun.  
It would be so easy, so simple, to learn towards him, to press his lips to the corner of Steve’s mouth, to the honey coloured down of his beard, and tell him everything. To lay himself bare and say _Is this enough?_ Whisper every secret and every dream in his ear and ask _Could I be enough?_  
Steve pulls away, dropping the skin-warmed cloth in the bowl at his feet, and for a moment Bucky feels weightless, untethered. As though the slightest breeze would scatter him like dandelion seeds.  
“I should…” Steve clears his throat, a blush rising on his cheeks. “I should go. You should get some rest. You don’t want to…”  
Steve gets to his feet, carrying the bowl over to the sink and pouring the water away.  
“Oh.” Bucky rubs his eyes. He’s tired, so tired, the threads of him loose and unwinding. “Yes. But thank you for coming.”  
Steve refills Bucky’s cup of water, and places it on the floor by the bed.  
“Just… take it easy, okay?” he says, hesitating as if there was something more he wanted to add, before turning to the stairs.  
Bucky closes his eyes, only meaning to rest them for a moment, and falls asleep.

***

Convalescence is a word unknown to Witches, and Bucky is soon on his feet again.  
Although he’s easily tired and unsteady on his feet, the thought of spending another minute in bed in the company of his own thoughts is too much to bear, and Bucky takes himself downstairs to rejoin the world.  
“Wanda?” Bucky wobbles his way to the bottom of the stairs and stops short. “What’s all this?”  
Wanda pulls back the drape that divides shop and workroom and steps into the workshop. “You’re supposed to be resting.”  
Bucky shrugs off her chiding tone and points to his desk. “What’s all this?”  
Instead of his usual assortment of work tools and scraps, the desk is laden down with gifts. There are paper wrapped parcels of pies and breads, little jars of preserves, and a bowl filled with fruit. There is even a jug of water with a half dozen sunflowers standing in it, their open blooms like sunshine.  
“The fruit is from Mr Dugan, he came by yesterday to check up on you. There were more pies but Pietro ate them.” Wanda looks guilty, and Bucky waves it off.  
“I’ve had enough soup to feed an army.” Bucky smiles. “I’ll need you both eating full time to get through all this.”  
“Well there’s also strawberry jam from the Hill Farm, and ginger cake from the Baker, he says it’ll put hairs on your-” Wanda coughs, the slightest hint of colour on her cheeks. “Chest.”  
Bucky picks up a jar of honey, turning it around in his hands before putting it down. “This is… I can’t accept this.”  
“Tough,” Wanda sniffs. “If you won’t take their money-”  
“I won’t take money for doing my duty,” Bucky says shortly. “I’ll take money for herbs and books, sure. But these people are my responsibility, I’ll not put a price on keeping them safe.”  
Wanda looks at him fondly. “You’re their responsibility too, Bucky. Let them take care of their Witch.”  
Bucky admits defeat with as little grace as possible. He picks out a plum from the bowl of fruit and takes a seat in the chair by the fire, giving her a last, sullen glare before taking a bite.  
It’s hard to be irritable when eating a sweet, ripe plum, and Bucky sighs in appreciation.  
“Will you pass on my thanks?” he asks, and Wanda presses a kiss to his forehead.  
“Already have.” She gives him a gentle smack on the shoulder. “Now stay put and behave yourself.”  
At his promise, she returns to man the shop, and Bucky sits in silence, his mouth filled with sweet nectar. When he’s done eating, the plum stone nibbled clean, he takes it out to the greenhouse and pushes it into a pot of soil.  
If it takes root he will plant it out by the lane, with a spell for good fortune, so in years to come passers by might taste a little sweetness too.

***

The sunflowers stay on Bucky’s desk, in the patch of sunlight under the window, filling the workshop with their delicate fragrance. Bucky saves each petal as it falls, laying them out on the windowsill to dry.  
The whole cottage is filled with the smell of summer flowers as Bucky hangs bunches of lavender and marigold and rose in the storeroom to dry. Bundles of sage and mint and oregano hang from every beam upstairs, the windows thrown wide open to let in the air.  
Come evening Bucky is out in the garden, making the most of the cooler weather to do some weeding, though he works slowly and has to stop and catch his breath now and then. Cinnamon sprawls on the grass beside him while the racoon spirits bumble around the apple tree. She rubs up against Bucky’s hip, trying to get his attention, when Steve shows up.  
“Hey,” Bucky says, brushing the hair out of his eyes and smearing dirt across his cheek.  
Steve gives him a tight little smile, and Bucky tries not to frown. Since he got sick, Steve has been a little… odd, a little reserved, not as relaxed and easygoing as usual. When asked if he was feeling alright, Steve would only shrug and say he was fine.  
With a lack of other options, Bucky can only give him his space, and hope that whatever is bothering him passes sooner or later.  
Steve tugs at the strap of his bag, and looks up at the sky. It won’t get dark for a while, though the hour is late. A full moon hangs high in the sky, the colour of the wheatfields surrounding the village. A Harvest Moon, golden and ripe.  
“Your tags,” Bucky remembers. Steve had wanted to get them finished at full moon.  
“If you’re busy?” Steve takes a step back, and Bucky shakes his head, getting to his feet.  
“No, no. Come in, I’ll make some tea. Can’t do magic without tea.”

Usually Steve would make some remark about that, or at least about Bucky’s fondness for sweet tea in general, but he just follows Bucky into the workshop. He hangs his bag over the back of the chair by the desk while Bucky refills the kettle and puts it over the fire. The fire is banked low, the weather far too warm for anything more, but there is enough heat to set the water boiling.  
Steve takes a fold of blue cloth out of his bag, and lays it on the desk, carefully unfolding and revealing the contents.  
His tags are the same size as Bucky’s, but there the similarities end. Where Bucky’s are rough edged and stamped with blocky text, spelling his true name, Steve’s are more elegantly made. He has painstakingly worked the edges of his tags with a file to make them oval with a serrated edge, the points curling up or dipping down like cherry leaves. His name he has etched onto the flat surface in cursive script, carefully elongated to resemble the veins on a leaf. Where Bucky has a hole punched through the strips of isipho, Steve has a tapering stem curled around a length of leather cord.  
They are beautiful, and Bucky’s tag seem clumsy in comparison.  
Bucky clears a few things off the desk, making space, before pouring out the tea. Steve adds a splash of milk to his cup and watches without remark while Bucky adds milk and sugar to his own. There is an uneasy silence between them.  
“Do you feel it’s done?” Bucky asks before taking a sip of tea.  
“Yes,” Steve says softly. “It’s done.”  
“Well then.” The tea is scalding and burns his throat as he swallows, but Bucky still drinks. “Let’s finish it.”

“Go wash your hands.” Bucky gets to his feet. “There’s a bottle of oil by the sink in the greenhouse, rub some onto your wrists and forehead.”  
Steve nods, taking a last mouthful of tea before doing as asked. While he’s out the room, Bucky clears the floor, moving the chairs against the wall, and pulls a folded rug off the bookshelf. He unfurls it, midnight blue and chased with threads of isipho, and lays it out on the floor.  
Next, he places an object at each of the compass points; a dish of sea salt to the north, a little ash from the fire to the east, a single white candle to the south and a cup of water to the west.  
Bucky spots Steve hovering in the doorway, a smear of oil on his forehead, and gestures for him to come in.  
“Sit here,” Bucky points to the candle. “Facing north towards the bowl of salt, the fire at your shoulder.”  
Steve’s mouth tightens to a line, but he does as directed, and when Bucky offers him a thin taper from the fire he lights the candle.  
“This is a spell of consecration, to align your spirit to your amulet.” Bucky picks up the cloth-wrapped tags, careful not to touch them, and places the bundle in Steve’s lap.  
“Spirit?” Steve asks warily.  
Bucky smiles. “Not like that. All things have an energy, a vibration. Magic is just… giving those energies a push in the right direction. By aligning your energies to this amulet you’ve made, you will harmonise with it. Do you understand?”  
Steve frowns. “Not really.”  
Bucky smiles, in spite of himself, and fetches a jar of incense from the desk. “If I stood in the middle of the river and told it to change its course, what would happen?”  
“You’d get wet,” Steve says quickly.  
“I’d get wet.” Bucky smiles. “But if I put a stone at the mouth of the river, what would happen?”  
Steve rubs at the sheen of oil on his fingers. “I guess it would change course.”  
“Magic is just putting little stones in little places, influencing the ebb and flow of energy.” Bucky tips incense into the palm of his hand, feels the shape of the resin, the potential within waiting to be released. “Are you ready?”  
“Yes.”

Bucky casts the incense into the fire, and the room fills with sweet, heady smoke.  
“Take the tags in your dominant hand,” Bucky says clearly. “And think only of their purpose. Why were they made, what are they for?”  
Steve gathers the tags up in his right hand and closes his eyes, his lips moving. The words are not for Bucky, so he looks away, drawing his hands over the fire and guiding the smoke. It rises up like a serpent, like a living thing, and Bucky weaves his fingers in a spiralling dance that the fragrant smoke joins in, twisting and circling around the room, filling every corner with perfume.  
At Bucky’s instruction, Steve passes his hand over each object laid out on the rug, reciting the spell given to him word by word. It is a simple incantation, but effective, and all the stronger for its simplicity.  
At last, Steve holds the spell to his chest, pressing the pieces over his heart.  
The spell comes quickly when Bucky’s mouth opens, and more easily than their stilted conversation. The words curl in the air before him, before dispersing like mist, and with that, the spell is done.

Steve blinks, the last lingering traces of smoke making his eyes water. “Is it over? Did it work?”  
Bucky nods, cracking open a window and letting in the fresh air. “It’s done.”  
He lets Steve sit for a moment while the air clears, and sets about making more tea. There’s some peanut cookies left over from the day before, and Bucky puts them onto a plate while the kettle boils.  
Steve seems to come to his senses, and tucks the tags into his pocket. He gets to his feet, careful not to disturb the items arranged on the rug, and quietly sets to work clearing up. Bucky snuffs out the candle and puts the ash back in the fire, while Steve rinses out the teapot and adds more tea leaves.  
There is a familiarity to their movements, born of practice. Bucky doesn’t have to ask Steve to be careful of the hot kettle while he pours the tea, because he already knows. Steve doesn’t need to ask where the milk and sugar are kept, because he has fetched them countless times already. But the pall in the air doesn’t disperse like the incense, and the longer they move about in silence, the heavier the air seems to become, like the drop in pressure before a thunderstorm.  
“Tea’s ready.” Bucky fills two cups, one large and white that he needs both hands to hold when it’s full, one smaller with a crackled blue glaze, that sits on the only saucer that hasn’t been repurposed as a candle holder.  
It’s Steve’s cup, though he can’t remember when that was decided, as if it had always been his.  
Bucky pushes the cookies towards Steve as he takes a seat.  
“Here, have some,” Bucky says gently. “Working a spell takes it out of you, you’ll feel better after you eat.”  
Steve takes a cookie, and chews on it silently, pausing for sips of tea. Bucky fiddles with his own cookie, pulling the candied peanuts off the top and eating them one at a time.  
“Thank you,” Steve says between bites. “For everything.”  
“It’s what I’m here for,” Bucky replies with a shy smile.

Steve pushes his cup to the side, wiping stray crumbs off his fingers. “I’ve been thinking.”  
When he doesn’t continue, Bucky raises his eyebrows. “Hmm?”  
Steve purses his lips, as if considering his words. “When my mother died I was… I was devastated. I was at a loss. If you hadn’t-”  
“Steve.” Bucky’s hand moves towards him, sliding across the desk before stopping just short of contact. “It’s alright.”  
Steve shakes his head. “I owe you so much, and I keep. I keep asking for more. I lean on you too much, I ask too much.”  
Each word seems to force it way out of Steve’s chest, as if his throat is trying to close over them, stop them from escaping, and Bucky brushes a fingertip over the hem of Steve’s sleeve. “No you don’t.”  
“Yes, I do,” Steve says curtly. “You. You’re kind, the kindest person I ever met. And maybe I read more into that than there really was. I thought no one is like this, no one is this selfless. But you are.” Steve scrubs his hand over his face, frustrated. “What you’ve done for the twins, for the farms. You were going to walk into the forest and trade with the Woodsman for a horse.”  
“I had to go talk to him eventually,” Bucky tries to point out.  
“That’s not the point,” Steve says sharply. “You got sick because of it.”  
“I caught a chill, that’s all.”  
“You were _really_ sick!” Steve snaps. “Dr Banner said you were exhausted. You stretch yourself thin, trying to do everything for everyone, and I just keep on bothering you.”  
“Steve, you’re not bothering me.” Bucky insists. “I like seeing you.”  
The rest of it gathers on Bucky’s tongue. All the things he wants to say, all the things he wants to have. Promises and oaths, bound in sweet words and rose petals. “Steve, I-”  
“I can’t do this anymore.”

Bucky’s mouth dries up, and a tremor passes through him unlike anything he’s felt before. Worse than the ache in his arm when there is a storm on the horizon, worse than the fevered shakes of sickness. As though he is a little boat capsized and sunk into the deepest ocean, without light and air and all the things he needs to live, only the suffocating press of the abyss.  
When he dares to speak, his words are a parched whisper. “You make it sound like we’re never going to see each other again.”  
Steve bows his head and that is all the answer Bucky needs. His veins seem to flood with seawater, cold and brackish, and he shivers, despite the fire beside him.  
“I’m going to ask Peggy to the Harvest Festival,” Steve says. Each word sounds like a stone falling into a well, echoing and unsalvageable. “I need to take responsibility, move forward. I can’t spend the rest of my life…” He swallows. “People say we’re well-matched, I think she’ll say yes.”  
Steve still doesn’t look at him, and for once Bucky is grateful. His eyes itch, saltwater flooding his every pore, and he tells himself that it’s the incense, though the air has long since cleared.  
“Do you love her?”  
Bucky clamps his foolish mouth shut, teeth clicking together. _Stupid_.  
“She is very dear to me,” Steve answers softly.  
Bucky tries to smile but can only grimace. He rubs at his sternum but it doesn’t ease the chill, and he watches as Steve carefully removes the tags hanging around his neck.  
“Here.” Steve holds them out, though his grip doesn’t loosen, his skin of his knuckles taut and bone pale.  
“No.” Bucky flinches away from the offering. He couldn’t bear to touch them now, warmed from bare skin he’ll never know the touch of. “They were a gift.”  
Steve runs his thumb across his tags with strange tenderness, and puts them back on.  
“Thank you, Bucky.” Steve reaches forward, and something cool and bright is pressed into Bucky’s hand. Steve closes Bucky’s hand into a fist, squeezing gently before letting go. “For everything.”  
Bucky nods, biting the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood, sharp and visceral. “Blessings be upon you.” The words come rolling off his tongue, and Bucky feels nothing for them. “Stars above and stone below, may love be constant as the stars, and as fast as the stone.”  
“I…” Steve swipes his fingers over his face again. Whatever he had intended to say falls into silence, and when Bucky looks up he is gone.

The tears, once they start to fall, flow like a river. Even when Noodle comes crawling out of his hiding place and winds around Bucky’s shoulders, as if he could stop them from shaking.  
The soot spirits crawl up Bucky’s legs, weaving between the teardrops soaking into his clothes as they climb over his hands, leaving sooty little prints on the leaf-shaped tags cradled in his palm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :hides:


	5. Honey and Ginger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is too much. Too much to think, too much to feel, and Bucky feels like he’s choking on it. So he slices it into pieces, mouthfuls of existence that he can swallow, one by one.  
> Razor: sharp against his throat, the scrape of blade against bristles.  
> Towel: dry yourself off, pat the water from your hair.  
> Clothes: clean and dry and waiting on the bed where Wanda left them.  
> Stairs: step followed by step followed by step, until they are all done.

From within his cocoon of blankets, Bucky can hear the rattle of key in lock, and the door to the shop open. There is a light tread on the wooden floor that tells him it’s Wanda, since Pietro sounds like a stampeding herd of cattle, even when he’s trying to be quiet.  
The door clicks shut, and he tracks her footsteps across the floor, before tunneling deeper under the covers. The heatwave that brought the whole village to a standstill for the last week finally broke in the night, bringing a thunderstorm that rattled the roof and lit up the skies. The storm wore itself out in the early hours, and Bucky had ventured out into the garden, his bare feet squelching through the wet grass, breathing in the fresh, cool air.  
He left muddy footprints on the stairs, skulking his way back to bed. Bucky can feel the dried dirt between his toes, itchy and distracting. There is a leather cord wrapped around his wrist, silver leaves pressing against the palm of his hands. He barely feels their presence anymore, or the way the serrated edges scratch his skin.

“Bucky?” Wanda calls from the bottom of the stairs, no doubt eyeing the trail of mud. “Are you up?”  
He could pretend he is still asleep, or can’t hear her under the covers, and she would probably leave him be. Bucky sighs, annoyed at himself, and pushes back the blankets, just enough to uncover his mouth.  
“No,” he calls. “I don’t think I’ll be up today.”  
The sound of footsteps on the stairs makes Bucky pull the covers back over his head. Okay, so he’s being childish. He’s fine with being childish.  
“Bucky, it’s market day,” Wanda says. “You’re getting up.”  
She grabs a handful of blankets and pulls. Bucky lets out a yelp. “Wanda!” He grabs at the blankets, but Wanda is faster, a lifetime of dealing with a twin brother giving her an advantage. With no attack left open to him Bucky tries retreat, rolling away from her. “I could be _naked_.”  
“Pfft.” Wanda gives the blankets another tug. “I have a _brother_. You’ve got nothing I haven’t seen before.”  
Wanda gives a last, decisive tug, stripping the blankets off the bed and exposing Bucky, dressed in the loose shirt and trousers he wore in the night, still damp from the rain. Bucky looks down at himself, reluctant to admit that he’s been in the same clothes for… how many days now?  
Wanda fixes him with a determined glare. “You are getting up.”  
“Wanda…”  
“No arguments.” Wanda bundles up the blankets and throws them in the laundry basket. “You can’t spend the rest of your life in bed. So you’re going to go out and you’re going to talk to people.”  
“I talk to you.”  
“Other people.” Wanda glowers. “Now get up and take a shower, because you smell like crap.”  
Bucky sits up, his shoulders slumping, and Wanda gives him a gentle swipe. “Now. Or I’ll drag you in there and scrub behind your ears myself.”  
Bucky doesn’t doubt her, and scrambles to the bathroom before she makes good on her threat.  
“I’m making breakfast,” Wanda calls after him. “Come down when you’re done.”

Bucky doesn’t linger in the shower, scrubbing soap into his hair and rinsing out the accumulated dirt and sweat from days of curling up in bed and staring at the light moving across the wall. He unclenches his right hand and looks at the tags nestled in his palm, his skin blotchy red and white from where the edges have scratched and jabbed.  
He could put it in a box and leave it on a shelf. He could fly out to the coast and cast it into the sea, and no one would know. He unwinds the cord from around his wrist and carefully draws it over his head, the tags settling in place on his chest, brushing against the ridge of his sternum. He turns off the shower, and tugs his hair free of the cord, twisting it up into a hank and wringing the water out.  
There is too much to think about, too much _life_ pressing down on him, and if he could Bucky would lean his face to the cold tiles and never move again.  
Downstairs there is a rattle of cup against saucer, and the faint aroma of sweet, hot tea.  
There is too much. Too much to think, too much to feel, and Bucky feels like he’s choking on it. So he slices it into pieces, mouthfuls of existence that he can swallow, one by one.  
Razor: sharp against his throat, the scrape of blade against bristles.  
Towel: dry yourself off, pat the water from your hair.  
Clothes: clean and dry and waiting on the bed where Wanda left them.  
Stairs: step followed by step followed by step, until they are all done.  
Wanda makes conversation while Bucky drinks tea and nibbles at a slice of toast spread thick with honey. He can taste the spell under the sweetness; ginger for vigor and lemon balm to ease the heart, like the susurration of bees in summer flowers.

“I don’t need a minder,” Bucky mutters as Wanda hands him his bag. Cinnamon peeks out from her hiding place under the desk, sniffing around for crumbs. Bucky reaches down to stroke her ears and she presses her forehead to his leg, chittering anxiously.  
“Of course you don’t,” Wanda agrees, walking him to the door. She curls her hand around the crook of Bucky’s elbow, warm and grounding, and leads him down the lane to the marketplace.  
The late summer heat had been stifling, the sun like a great hammer striking down, the air thick with dry dust and wheat stalks from the harvesting. With the coming of rain the earth seems to breathe a sigh of relief, the long summer finally coming to an end.  
Even on market day the wagons piled with hay are still trundling through the village. The last of the grain had been put into storage before the rain, in a frantic rush of farm hands working through the night to get everything harvested in time. Now that the growing year is almost over, the farmers can relax a little.  
In the distance the wheatfields are dry, yellowing stubble, bales of hay stacked by the road to be collected by the haywains. A little rain won’t hurt them, and the villagers will come out with hessian sacks, under cover of darkness, and help themselves to a little hay to feed their goats or stuff their mattresses, and no one will speak of it.  
The gathering of the corn means that the harvest festival is fast approaching, though Bucky has given it little thought (a lie, he admits, it is all he can think about). In a few days the market square will be filled with the fruits of the years labours; baskets of apples and pears and huge winter squashes, ripe and round and the colour of sunset. There will be dancing couples (and Bucky’s thoughts skitters over that image) and food and drink aplenty, as people celebrate the end of another year’s harvest.

The market is already in full swing, with shoppers haggling over prices with the stallholders or hanging around by the beer cart and pie merchant. There are a few newcomers, seasonal workers who only arrive in the later months of the year. A boy a few years younger than Wanda pushes sugared nuts around in a hot pan on a portable stove, before scooping up a spoonful and wrapping it is greased paper for a customer.  
Wanda excuses herself to speak to a friend, and Bucky wanders idly around the square, keeping in the shadow of the oak tree in the center as he nods and smiles to passers by. No one remarks on how quiet he is, no doubt putting it down to his recent illness. He answers questions put his way politely, but briefly, and doesn’t linger anywhere for too long.  
He sees a stall devoted to mushrooms, little baskets of strange, woody looking fragments and large, pale coloured caps arranged neatly on the counter. The stallholder looks familiar, and it is only when he gives Bucky a bow, crossing his arms over his chest, that Bucky realises he is Jabari. Bucky returns the gesture before continuing on his way.  
Dugan has already set aside a box of vegetables for him when he gets to the grocer’s stall, and gives Bucky a gentle lecture on eating his greens. The box is filled with new potatoes and crisp, red apples, sweet carrots and dense bundles of curly kale. Dugan refuses to let Bucky carry the box, instead insisting on getting Pietro to bring it later, along with anything else Bucky picks up from the market. The kindness catches in Bucky’s throat, and he has to excuse himself.  
He finds a quiet corner away from the crowds, and takes a moment to collect himself before going to look for Shuri.

The stall is easy to find, decked in brightly lit spirit houses. Bucky pauses at the stall entrance, and reaches up to touch one of the houses hanging from the wood framed stall. It is lovely to behold, a mosaic of brightly coloured pieces of glass, fused into a globe shape with leaded isipho, shining softly in the morning light.  
“Hey, you!” A brightly coloured drape is pulled back from the side of the stall, and Shuri steps out. She is dressed in bold, autumnal colours, the bright orange of changing leaves and ripe pumpkins, accented by the stripe of lemon yellow on her lip.  
Bucky smiles as she comes towards him for a hug, wrapping her slender arms around his shoulders and trying her best to crush him. She pulls back sharply, grabbing his face with both hands and pinching his cheeks. “What’s all this?” she asks. “What’s with this face?”  
“Nothing.” Bucky’s answer comes out garbled as Shuri presses her knuckles to the corners of his mouth up, forcing them up in an approximation of a smile. “This is my regular face.”  
“Riiight,” Shuri mutters, unconvinced. She gives his cheeks a last pinch before letting go, and Bucky gives them a surreptitious rub, trying to massage feeling into them again as she goes back behind the counter.  
“So what do you think?” Shuri gestures to the spirits houses bathing the stall in chequered lights.  
“Beautiful, you’ve really outdone yourself,” Bucky says, and Shuri beams proudly.  
With summer coming to an end and the days getting shorter, people’s thoughts turn to safety. A Witch has nothing to fear of the dark, but Bucky can understand why others would hang spirit houses on their front porches, hoping to draw ghost moths and fireflies to shed their gentle light on their doorsteps.

Bucky reaches into his bag, and pulls out a fold of cloth. He only has a few small pieces of rock for Shuri this time, and he feels a twinge of guilt at how he has been neglecting his duties of late. There are borders he has not walked in weeks, or checked for damage or wayward spirits. The fields have been left uncrossed, and the river flows without his intervening.  
He knows why. He knows that it’s cowardly and poor behaviour for a Witch. But they are the places Steve walks, the fields where he can be found sketching the late summer blooms, or places down by the water where the air is cooler. And where he is Bucky cannot bear to go. Not yet.  
Shuri accepts the bundle and lays it down on the counter before carefully unwrapping it. She picks through the contents, setting aside the light, porous stones and keeping the ones with a rippled, glassy surface. For once Bucky doesn’t wander away while she communes with the stones, and watches the subtle tilt of her head, the rhythm of her breathing as she sings her song and the stones answer her call.  
“So I hear you’ve been in the forest,” Shuri says, wrapping the cloth around her chosen stones and putting them under the counter.  
Bucky nods warily. “A horse got loose, I went to get it back.”  
“And you took a friend.” Shuri gives Bucky a sly look.  
It’s an opening, a chance for Bucky to tell her what’s been going on. She would listen if he did, and offer sound advice. He clears his throat and picks up the rejected stones from the counter, dropping them in his bag. Shuri takes the hint, much to his surprise, and her expression turns businesslike.  
“Come on then, you’re here to trade,” she says briskly. “What are you looking for?”  
Gratitude swells in Bucky’s chest, sharp and jagged and difficult to breathe around.  
“I need a spirit house, a strong one.” The words don’t come easily, but Shuri waits patiently for him to finish. “Preferably in glass.”  
She hums thoughtfully. “A malevolent?”  
“Maybe,” Bucky ponders. “Maybe not.”  
“Hmpf.” Shuri looks unimpressed at his assessment. “What size?”  
Bucky holds his hands apart, sketching a rough shape in the air, and Shuri ducks down under the counter and rummages around for a few minutes before making a sound of triumph.  
“Aha!” She lifts up a glass jar the size of an acorn squash and similarly rounded. It is sealed with a thick cork, and the glass has the silvery sheen of isipho. “Perfect, yes?”  
She holds it out, and Bucky takes it carefully, weighing it in his hands. It’s heavy for its size, and he can almost smell the sharp iron tang of magic rippling through the glass. “Perfect.”

The spirit bottle is too big to fit in Bucky’s bag, so he tucks it under his arm.  
“Don’t drop it, okay?” Shuri warns.  
“I won’t,” Bucky promises.  
“I mean, it’ll be fine if you drop it, but this is my handiwork, y’know? Treat it with respect.”  
The corner of Bucky’s mouth twitches up. “I’ll keep it on a velvet cushion.”  
Shuri doesn’t smile, a line of concern creasing her brow. “Come here.”  
Bucky knows better than to argue, and steps forward while Shuri takes a small wooden box out from under the counter. She picks out a strip of soft, velvety fabric, a teardrop shaped pendant hanging from it by a slim thread of isipho.  
“Shuri, I can’t-”  
“Shut up and turn around,” Shuri says firmly, and Bucky turns obediently, sweeping his hair out of the way so Shuri can fasten the strip around his neck.  
“You’re too damn tall,” she grumbles, going up onto her tiptoes to fix the necklace in place. “Now turn back, let me look at you.”  
Bucky lets his hair drop, and dutifully shuffles around again. Shuri tugs at the necklace until the pendant, pale blue like sunlight on clear waters, sits neatly at the base of his throat. The teardrop is pleasantly cool to the touch, and Shuri pats Bucky on the chest when she’s done.  
“What was that story you once told me, about how the oceans were formed?”  
Bucky bites his lip. He knows where this is going.  
“The ocean is made of tears,” he murmurs. “One shed for each of our sorrows.”  
“The time for tears is done, brother,” she says lightly. “We don’t want you to get washed away.”  
She pats him on the cheek, and Bucky takes her hand in his and places a kiss on her palm. “Thank you, sister.”

***

From the workshop Bucky hears the knock at the door.  
It’s late, too late for regular customers. The sun has already set, and there is a thin sliver of moon in the sky, obscured by gathering clouds.  
Wanda is still in the shop, working on her loom. There’s not enough room in the workshop for it along with everything else, and she can’t work on it at home with Pietro underfoot, so she keeps it in the shop where she can work on her tapestries while manning he floor. The shop is quiet enough most days, customers preferring to make appointments to speak to Bucky or catch him when he’s at the market, so Wanda can lose herself in the warp and the weft of her work without rushing to answer the door all the time.  
Bucky wonders about building her a workroom, maybe on the parcel of land opposite the cottage. But then he would miss her presence, the rhythmic sound of shuttle and reed, and the sweet sound of Wanda’s singing as she works.  
He doesn’t get up from where he’s sat, hunched over the desk, coaxing a water spirit from the saucer in front of him into a tiny spirit bottle. The spirit drifts back and forth in its puddle of rainwater, its delicate tendrils trailing after it. The tendrils sting, as the marks on Bucky’s wrist can attest, not enough to cause damage, but enough to dissuade someone from touching it a second time. The spirit itself isn’t malevolent, it just so happens to sting, and Bucky eases it towards the open neck of the bottle. The spirit drifts towards the open mouth of the bottle and propels itself inside. There are a few grains of sand and a fragment of seaweed already in the bottle, and it drifts around its new home peaceably, making no attempt to leave.  
Bucky seals the bottle with a little cork, and puts it to one side. Later he will put it out on the shelf in the shop, to be bought by a girl who wants to be left alone by an unwelcome suitor, or strung on a bag to deter pickpockets.

He sits up and listens to Wanda’s footsteps across the shop floor and the creak of the door opening.  
There is a sharp intake of breath, and Bucky tilts his head to one side. He can hear Wanda speaking, a rapid, furious hiss, but can’t make out the words.  
Noodle, coiled up in the bag hanging from the back of Bucky’s chair, pokes his head out from under the flap, and flickers out his tongue.  
A chill runs down Bucky’s spine. _Oh_.  
He gets to his feet, and slowly walks towards the doorway. He reaches up to twist his fingers in the heavy folds of green cloth but doesn’t pull back the drape.  
“Wanda, please,” Steve says urgently. “I need to speak to Bucky.”  
“How _dare_ you come back here!” Wanda’s voice is brittle, scarlet curling around the edges of her words. The spell is powerful, and Bucky wonders when she had become so _strong_.  
“Please,” Steve says, more softly this time. “I need-”  
“What you need is to _leave_ ,” Wanda spits. “Before I hex your balls off.”  
The threat must have its intended effect, because the door slams shut a moment later, and Wanda stomps back across the floor.  
Bucky is frozen where he stands, one hand still gripping the drape. He hears Wanda move towards him, pausing on the other side of the curtain.  
“You heard that?” she asks.  
“Yeah,” Bucky admits. “Hard not to.”  
“I…” Wanda hesitates. “I wasn’t really going to…”  
Bucky coughs out a laugh and pulls back the drape, whatever spell that had befallen him broken.  
“Come here, you,” he says, pulling her into an embrace.  
Wanda curls up in his arms, tucking her head under his chin. “No less than he deserves,” she grumbles, her voice muffled against his shirt.

Wanda excuses herself and returns to her weaving, while Bucky puts the kettle on to make tea. He makes two cups, more out of habit than anything, and takes them both to the shop floor.  
The shop has changed in small but significant ways since the twins arrived, and much of the walls have been given over to Wanda’s creations. Her tapestries, red interwoven with gold, are dotted around the room, draped across counters and hanging from the pots of herbs along the walls. Wanda tries to keep on top of the clutter but Bucky is not exactly helpful on that front, filling the shelves with an eclectic collection of books and plants, and filling every spare inch of space with spirit bottles and spells and charms.  
Bucky puts her cup of tea on the counter and walks a slow circuit around the shop, nudging things around on the shelves while Wanda works on her loom, ignoring his fidgeting.  
“So…” Bucky takes a sip of too-hot tea, feigning disinterest. “What did he want?”  
Wanda glances at him sharply, and gives her shuttle a hard tug. “Bucky.”  
“I was just…” Bucky moves a bottle of oil two inches to the left. “Wondering.”  
She sniffs, and works the shuttle through the net of threads laid out on her loom, making Bucky squirm with impatience.  
“C’mon Wanda.” Bucky gives up on moving merchandise around, and leans against the counter. “Tell me.”  
“Fine.” She puts down the shuttle and picks up her teacup. “He said there was a spirit causing trouble at the Carter Estate.”  
“A spirit?” Bucky straightens up. “What kind of spirit?”  
“I don’t know.” Wanda sips her tea, radiating innocence. “I wasn’t listening.”  
Bucky doesn’t have it in him to be annoyed. “I’ll get my case.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me with you?” Wanda asks as Bucky gathers his things together.  
Bucky pauses in filling his case. “I’ll be fine,” he tells her. “Promise.”  
A lie, he knows, but he can’t let Wanda come with him. She has his best interests at heart, but if Steve is at the estate she’ll not tolerate his presence, or what his presence means. Keeping them apart would take more energy than Bucky has right now.  
“Besides,” he adds, snapping the case shut. “Who’d look after the shop?”  
Noodle, curled up in his bag, pokes his head out, and Bucky gives his nose a light tap. “You can’t come either,” he says apologetically. “You’ll scare the horses.”  
Noodle ducks back into the bag with a hiss, and Bucky takes a last look around. Cinnamon had been dozing under the desk earlier and he doesn’t want to shut her in by accident, but she seems to have gone back outside.  
“Coat,” Wanda announces, holding it out for him, dispelling his wonderings.  
Bucky slips on the coat with a thank you before grabbing his hat and heading out the door.  
The thickening cover of cloud overhead casts a pall over the quiet streets, and there is no starlight to navigate by. Bucky claps his hands together, drawing them apart to reveal a ball of grey light. It’s not as bright as it could be, nor does it float very high off the ground, drifting a little below shoulder height. It is enough to light the way, and Bucky follows the road through the village, keeping an eye out for any trouble.

He finds trouble right where he expects it, arriving at the Carter Estate to find every window ablaze with candlelight and the staff milling around in the driveway, wrapped in hastily grabbed blankets and coats against the cold. They mutter and grumble as rain starts to fall, huddling together for warmth. The horses, thankfully, are untroubled by the disturbance, asleep in the stables away from the drama.  
“The Witch!” a voice calls out, and someone pushes through the crowd towards him.  
He is tall and thin, his clothes starched and pressed even at this late hour, and Bucky remembers him from the last visit. He inclines his head politely “Mr Jarvis?”  
“Yes, yes.” Jarvis smooths his hand over his hair, as though a single strand would dare fall out of place. “Thank goodness you’re here.”  
“What’s happened?” Bucky asks, falling into step beside him as he leads the way to the main house.  
“Absolute chaos, I barely know where to start,” Jarvis declares.  
Up by the entrance Peggy is wrapping a coat around Angie’s shoulders, rubbing her arms to keep her warm. Angie looks at her fondly, but quickly adopts a more neutral expression when she sees Bucky approaching.  
“Pegs,” she mutters, and squeezes Peggy’s arm.  
Peggy turns around, relief flooding her expression at the sight of Bucky. Her hair is in disarray, and her clothes are scuffed. Something has taken a ragged bite out of her shirtsleeve.  
Bucky reaches out to the shirt, catching hold of a torn edge, and Peggy is too surprised to stop him.  
Spirits can bring light to the darkness, can influence the wind and the weather, they can even sting, and in rare cases scar, but otherwise their influence on the material world is negligible.  
“Tell me everything.”

“The rose garden,” Peggy says as Bucky rubs the torn edge of her shirt between thumb and forefinger, raindrops soaking into the linen. “Jarvis heard a disturbance, and went out to investigate. Something was tearing up the roses. He thought it was a wild animal at first but then-”  
“Spirits,” Jarvis interrupts. “Everywhere! Huge great cloudy things rolling around me. Snarling and… and they had such teeth!”  
“You saw teeth?” Bucky asks, trying to form an image in his mind of the spirits described.  
“Like a pack of dogs!” Jarvis wrings his hands, worried. “I went back inside and they came after me!”  
“The bloody things were everywhere,” Peggy continues. “Rolling through all the rooms. We tried to keep them downstairs, we even tried locking them in the parlour, but they just… came right through the walls.”  
“I knew we should have kept that oak panelling,” Jarvis sighs, and Peggy looks back to the house.  
Bucky doesn’t tell them that oak panelling wouldn’t have made much of a difference, not against spirits.  
“Where are they now?” he asks instead. The rain is gathering in strength, beading on the rim of his hat.  
“No idea,” Peggy shakes her head. “We evacuated the house when we realised we couldn’t contain them.”  
She gestures to the gathering of people huddled together, shivering in the rain. As much as he tries not to look for him, Bucky doesn’t see Steve among them.  
“Is there any sign of trouble in the staff quarters?” Bucky points to the building further back from the driveway.  
“No, I don’t believe so,” Jarvis says.  
“Alright.” Bucky tightens his grip on his case. “Get everyone in there, keep them warm and dry. I’ll come find you when this is dealt with.”  
Peggy takes a step forward. “You’re not seriously thinking of going in there alone?”  
“Well I’m not taking any of you with me,” Bucky answers sharply. “It’s not safe.”  
“Bugger safe,” Peggy snaps. “I’m coming with you.”  
_No wonder Steve likes her_ , Bucky thinks, as Peggy steels herself for a fight.  
“Take care of your people, Ms Carter,” Bucky says gently. “They need you more than I do.”  
She looks ready to argue, but Angie reaches out, resting her hand on the crook of Peggy’s arm. “C’mon, Pegs. Let the man do his job.”  
To Bucky’s surprise Peggy withdraws, patting Angie’s hand.  
“Well,” she murmurs. “If you’re sure.”  
“I am,” Bucky promises.  
He waits for them to retreat, joining the staff and, after a brief discussion, moving them towards the staff quarters. They glance at Bucky warily as they walk away, and he does his best to appear calm and composed. He tips back the brim of his hat, and pushes open the door.

Inside the house it is silent and still, and Bucky walks softly from room to room, stretching out with his senses. There are burning candles and lanterns left out on tables and counters, and Bucky snuffs out each one that he passes. He steps over fallen chairs, and passes vases of flowers knocked over, books spilled across the floor. He rights each thing he finds wrong as he searches, and finds nothing that couldn’t be explained away by panicking humans.  
Rain patters against the windows, and Bucky makes his way to the garden.  
There is mud tracked into the house by the garden door, too trampled to discern any footprints, and Bucky pushes the door wide open before stepping out onto the grass. On his last visit to the house the garden had been a thing of manicured beauty, neatly trimmed lawns dotted with chamomile flowers and serried rows of flowerbeds. The roses, their blooms deep scarlet, had stood in bare soil meticulously weeded. Now it is in ruins.  
The neat borders of the beds have been torn up, and mud trampled across the grass. The last of the summer flowers have been strewn across the ground, and something is still moving around in the darkness, out of the circle of light thrown out from the lanterns light in the windows.  
No, it is not the work of a restless spirit, and Bucky’s heart breaks all over again.  
“Cinnamon?”

There is a huffle and a scuffle, and a pointed, mud-streaked face turns Bucky’s way. He crouches down, putting down his case and holding out his arms.  
“Come here.”  
The racoon shuffles towards him, slow and loping, pausing just beyond the stretch of his fingers. She chitters softly, huddling in on herself as if she could make herself smaller, less of a target.  
“What’s all this, hmm?” Bucky asks, keeping his voice low and gentle. “This isn’t like you.”  
Cinnamon drags her paws down her nose, and lets out a mournful whine.  
There is movement in the darkness, and one by one the racoon spirits appear, like pale reflections of their ringleader. They roll back and forth at the border between light and shadow, keeping their distance, though they have never shied away from Bucky before.  
And then it comes to him.  
“Steve,” Bucky utters. “This is because of Steve.”  
In all his sorrow Bucky had never thought about how losing Steve would affect those around him. Wanda and Pietro had been clear about where their loyalties lie, even though Bucky had never asked them to pick a side, or even thought there were sides to choose between.  
He had been so buried in his grief that he never considered that others might be grieving too. 

Cinnamon whines again, and when she doesn’t come closer Bucky moves towards her, scooping her up in his arms and holding her tightly, mud and grass and claws be damned.  
“I’m so sorry,” Bucky whispers, and something vast and burning clogs up his throat. It might be his heart, clawing its way out of him, like a frightened animal trying to escape the cage of his ribs.  
Cinnamon keens, low and wretched, and the spirits around them take up the howl.  
“Shhh, it’s okay,” Bucky soothes, and she tunnels deeper into his arms, her claws catching his fingers and drawing blood. Bucky’s hat gets knocked off in her scrabbling, and rainwater soaks into his hair. He buries his face in Cinnamon’s wet fur and lets the tears spill, hot and bitter.  
The spirits draw closer and Bucky reaches out to them, gathering them around him.  
“I need you all to listen to me, alright?” Bucky rubs his eyes with his sleeve, though it does little good. “I know you’re angry, I know you think Ms Carter took Steve away from us, but that’s not what happened.”  
The spirits bump up against Bucky’s bent knees, against his hip, crowding close. He can barely feel their touch, as fleeting and formless as moonlight, but welcomes them all the same.  
“The heart chooses, and we respect its choice, do you understand?” he says, his voice wavering. “We mustn’t be angry because we don’t like the outcome. And we don’t hurt others because of it.”  
The lights from the manor house flicker briefly, and Cinnamon pushes her nose under Bucky’s chin, her rough pink tongue darting out to lick the salt from his face.  
“Sometimes…” Bucky works his fingers through her soaking fur. “Sometimes when you love someone, no matter how much, it’s still not enough.” Cinnamon noses at his cheek, catching the tears as they fall. “It doesn’t mean they will love you back.”

Bucky swipes his hands across his face, rubbing the grit from his hot, stinging eyes with his fingertips, and pulls himself together.  
“Now we will have no more of this nonsense,” he says, to himself as much as anyone. “Is that understood?”  
The spirits wobble solemnly, and Cinnamon whines, high and sharp. Bucky takes it as agreement and struggles to his feet, tucking the racoon safely under his arm. His clothes are soaked, his knees caked in mud, and it takes a moment to find his hat again. Even though it’s dripping wet and unbearably cold he shoves it onto his head, and grabs his case before turning back to the manor house.  
Peggy is standing in the doorway, and Bucky feels like a drowned rat compared to her easy grace and elegant clothes.  
“Ms Carter,” Bucky says politely, fighting the urge to duck his head down. “You can bring your people back inside, now.”  
“Peggy,” she says absently, taking in the the sight of him, surrounded by meek-looking spirits and with a racoon under one arm. “What-”  
“I’m sorry, this is my fault.” Bucky bursts out before she can say anything. “It won’t happen again, I swear.” Cinnamon squirms in Bucky’s grip, as if in protest, and Bucky shushes her.  
“Is that a racoon?” Peggy asks, and Bucky has to bite back a curse.  
“Please,” he says instead. “Let me pay for the damages.”  
“These are your spirits?” Peggy asks, and Bucky ticks his head from side to side.  
“Well, no. They belong to themselves, really.” One of the spirits bumps up against Bucky’s knee and he gently pushes it back with the side of his boot.  
“Of course.” Peggy nods thoughtfully.  
She doesn’t look angry and Bucky wishes, just a little bit, that she could swear or curse a little bit. Because the way she’s _looking_ at him makes him feel flayed open, his sorrows exposed for the world to see.  
“I’m serious about the damage.” Bucky adjusts his case as the spirits nudge against the backs of his thighs. “If you can let me know what the reparations cost I’ll pay it.” Cinnamon yips in protest. “I have the money.”  
“I’m sure you do,” Peggy hums and shakes her head. “But it’s out of the question.”  
“Ms Carter-”  
“Peggy.” She smiles at him, brisk and merciless. “To be quite honest you’ve done me a favour, the garden needed sprucing up a bit.”  
Bucky stares at her. “Sprucing up?” 

There is movement in the house behind Peggy, and Bucky sees Angie and Jarvis cautiously approaching the doorway. Angie is armed with a large brass candlestick, while Jarvis seems to have furnished himself with a tennis racquet.  
“Yes.” Peggy claps her hands together decisively. “Well, thank you so much for coming, Mr Barnes-”  
“Bucky.” Because two can play at that game.  
“Bucky,” Peggy says brightly, and Bucky sags inwardly. Okay, he can play but it doesn’t mean he’s any good at it. “Now, if you could leave us to take care of things? We have a lot of clearing up to do, and plans to make.”  
“Of course,” Bucky nods. “It’s only a few days until the harvest festival, you must be very busy.”  
Jarvis and Angie come closer, though Angie doesn’t put down her candlestick. Jarvis looks repulsed by the muddy racoon, Angie looks _delighted_.  
“Yes, I suppose so.” Peggy shrugs, noncommittal. “Will you be you joining us?”  
“Oh no,” Bucky shakes his head, damp hair plastering his cheeks. “But I’m sure you and Steve will have a… a nice time.”  
“Is Steve coming?” Peggy asks Jarvis, who looks blankly at her.  
“I ain’t heard nothing.” Angie gives Peggy a dark look. “You got somethin’ you wanna tell me?”  
“No.” Peggy shakes her head, frowning. “Not to my knowledge.”

It’s all too much, after days of too much, and Bucky lets his shoulders drop. He is cold and tired, and his eyes sting, and Peggy has a way of looking at him that makes him feel like one of those pale, damp things that you find when you turn over a rock. And he’s tired of being stared at, and would very much like to go back to hiding under his rock  
“If you’ll excuse me?” he says quietly, “I’ll leave you to it.”  
Peggy is quick to lead him back through the house to the main entrance, indifferent to the muddy footprints he leaves on the floor or his apologies for leaving them.  
They walk down the steps to the wide gravel drive, and the spirits tumble on ahead, lolloping gently down towards the village.  
“Peggy,” Bucky says slowly as they watch the spirits tumbling along.  
“Please stop offering me money,” Peggy cuts him off. “It’s bloody annoying.”  
Bucky coughs out a laugh and concedes defeat. “I had to ask.”  
“No, you didn’t.” Peggy smiles and gives Cinnamon a scratch between the ears. She lets out a pleased little squeak, tipping her head to one side so Peggy can reach the itchiest places.  
She is kind, Bucky realises. Kind and clever and _brave_. The spell forms before he is even aware of it, twining between his fingers as he reaches out to take her hand.  
“There is no cloud that can obscure the sun,” he says, drawing threads of silver across her skin. “Not for long, at least. No more hiding in the shade, Peggy. Walk in the sunlight.”  
She stares at him, surprised, and Bucky feels the slightest flicker of pride.  
“I would ask you to do the same,” she says finally.  
He smiles, though it doesn’t hold. It’s still a kindness that she asked.  
“Thank you, Peggy.” Bucky puts Cinnamon on the ground, and she lets out a yip before dashing off ahead, herding the wandering spirits back onto the road.  
Bucky puts his back to the manor and follows them home.

***

Wanda pauses at the top of the stairs. “Close your eyes.”  
“Wanda,” Bucky says gently. “Come down.”  
“Not until your eyes are closed.”  
Bucky huffs, pushing his work on the desk to one side before turning around in his chair and putting his back to the fire. He covers his eyes with both hands. “Okay, they’re covered. You can come down.”  
“Noodle, is he telling the truth?” Wanda calls.  
The snake, coiled around the bannister, lifts his head and hisses confidently. Wanda takes his word over Bucky’s and descends the stairs, her new boots tapping lightly against each step.  
“Okay,” she says at last. “You can look.”  
Bucky uncovers his eyes with a flourish and lets out a gasp.  
“It’s too much,” Wanda says nervously. “Is it too much?”  
She is wearing a gown woven in the deep, autumnal red of ripe apples and maple leaves. The laced corset accentuates her already slim figure, as does the skirt that billows out below it. The long sleeves are made of form-fitting burgundy lace, the same shade as her painted nails and new boots. Last there is a tall, pointed hat on her head, the wide brim obscuring her eyes but drawing attention to her wide, red-painted mouth.  
“Bucky, say something!” Wanda snaps when he has been staring too long.  
“You look radiant!” Bucky beams at her, pride filling his heart. “They’ll be calling you the Scarlet Witch.”  
She smooths down the front of her skirt. “It’s not too much?”  
Bucky shakes his head. “You’re a Witch, there’s no such thing!”  
Wanda smiles, still a little shy, but gaining confidence with every moment that passes. “Are you sure?”  
“As sure as can be,” Bucky promises.

Wanda does another twirl, her skirts flying out around her, the rings on her fingers catching the firelight, and comes to a sudden stop. Her skirt takes a little longer to stop than she does, swishing back and forth a little. “Are you sure you won’t come with us?”  
“Oh, no.” Bucky turns back to his desk, and tries to look busy. “I have far too much work to do.”  
“Bucky.”  
“Really, I have so much to do,” Bucky insists, plucking at random objects on his desk. “I have spells to work on.” He does, in fact. He is supposed to be collecting together all his recipes to make into a book, and he jumps on that. “I have a grimoire to write, you said yourself! I need to write it all down.”  
“I’m sure your tea blend for arthritis can wait a day,” Wanda points out.  
“Yeah. Well. The arthritis treatment is a massage oil, so…” Bucky purses his lips. “You’ve been looking forward to this all summer. And someone has to keep an eye on Pietro.”  
“Hey?” Pietro pulls back the drape dividing the shop and workroom. “What did I do now?”  
Pietro had a perfectly respectable dark grey suit for the festival, although the jacket and tie have vanished under suspicious circumstances, as has his only white shirt. The shirt he’s wearing is much tighter, and the top two buttons don’t seem to be working.  
“Nothing yet,” Wanda mutters.  
“Oh!” Pietro finally notices Wanda’s dress. “Look at you.”  
He comes into the room and takes her by the hands, spinning her around the cramped space.  
Bucky flinches out of the way as they go twirling past. “Watch the books!” he calls out, as Pietro steers his sister away from the bookcase at the last moment.  
“My baby sister,” Pietro says proudly. “All grown up.”  
“I’m twelve minutes older than you,” Wanda replies archly, and Pietro kisses her noisily on the cheek.  
“You should be going,” Bucky tells them. “You don’t want to be late.”  
Pietro offers Wanda his arm. “Milady.”  
“Don’t you have a date for tonight?” Wanda raises an eyebrow. “I thought you had a shortlist or something.”  
Pietro winks at her. “I’m keeping my options open.”

Before long they are heading for the door, and Bucky gives Wanda a hug.  
“Have fun, alright?” Bucky says, letting go before he can rumple her new clothes.  
“You know how to have fun, right?” Pietro gives his sister a nudge, and she frowns at him  
“You.” Bucky gives Pietro a pinch on the arm and he lets out a yelp.  
“Hey! What was that for?” he whines, rubbing a spot nowhere near where Bucky pinched him.  
“Stay out of trouble,” Bucky says firmly.  
“What?” Pietro gives him a wide eyed look of innocence but Bucky doesn’t fall for it, the kid has lightning in his veins.  
He stands on the doorstep and watches them walk down the lane, the lights from the village square a haze in the distance. Their evening will be filled with music, the whole square taken up with dancing. Pietro will be in the thick of it, stripping the willow with any pretty girl that catches his eye.  
Bucky hopes that Wanda will take a turn or two on the floor but if she doesn’t, there will be food and drink, and people to talk to.  
She’ll be leaving soon, Bucky thinks sadly. He has taught her everything he can, and the village is too small for more than one Witch. As much as Bucky hopes she’ll find a place nearby, he also hopes that she’ll travel far and wide. That she’ll spread those fledgeling wings of hers and see the whole world.  
With that thought, he pushes the door closed, but leaves it unlatched. His own evening will be tea and paperwork, and perhaps the quiet will do him good.

Bucky carries his stack of papers into the shop and puts them on the counter. Noodle, coiled loosely around his shoulders, stretches out towards the nearby bookcase. The spirit Bucky rescued from the Carter Estate, puddled at the base of its spirit jar on the shelf, spirals up curiously, its tapering point forming into a wedge shape. Noodle raises his head, and the spirit does the same, a tendril of smoke darting from its pointed face like a tongue.  
“You want to go down?” Bucky asks as Noodle starts slithering down his arm, taking his weight easily and placing him gently on the shelf. He curls up in a happy little tangle amongst the bottles and jars.  
The spirit twists around, trying to mimic Noodle’s pose, and Bucky smiles fondly at them both.  
There is an odd little twinge in his chest. A jolt and shiver, not quite pain and not exactly pleasure. Bucky rubs at his sternum, and wonders if he ate something that disagreed with him.  
He dismisses it as nothing of importance, and decides to make some tea. The kettle is still warm from the last cup, and Bucky makes up some sweet ginger tea to settle his stomach.  
He has barely taken his first sip when there is a knock at the door, and there is that odd little jolt again, in the center of his chest where his tags lie.  
There is no urgency in the knocking, just a polite little tapping, so why does Bucky’s heart trip and stumble?  
He pushes back the drape, and looks out into the shop. Noodle, curled up on his shelf, turns to the door and flicks out his tongue.  
_Oh._  
It's not his heart skipping a beat, Bucky realises. Not his heart, but someone else's, housed in the tags around his neck.  
Calm settles over his shoulders like a blanket, familiar and warm. Bucky presses his teacup to his chest, where the tags trip and stumble, filled with doubt and promises and love, with so much love.  
“Come in,” Bucky calls and the door slowly opens.

Steve has changed little since the last time Bucky saw him. His hair is still too long and tousled by the wind, his beard honey-gold. The light is new, or if it is not, Bucky had never noticed it before. It dances around him like fireflies, like sunlight filtering through the trees. If Bucky were to look, he would see the same light surrounding himself.  
“Hey, Steve,” Bucky says softly. “Close the door behind you.”  
If Bucky had thought Steve had gone to the harvest festival, one look at his clothing would have quickly dispelled that idea. He’s wearing his usual work trousers, the ones with paint splashes on the knees, and a blue shirt that brings out his eyes. His bag is slung over his shoulder, his sketchbook and tin of watercolours poking out the top. He stares as Bucky, his eyes wide, and doesn’t move.  
“Steve?” Bucky says again. “The door?”  
That seems to get through to him, and he scrubs his boots on the doormat before stepping inside and closing the door. He casts around the room, shifting from side to side, nerves radiating out from him like heat from a fire.  
“Peggy thumped me,” Steve says abruptly, and Bucky stifles a laugh. “She came up to the croft and she. She thumped me. And called me a bloody idiot.” He clamps his mouth shut, tugging at the strap of his bag.  
“Well,” Bucky puts his tea down on the counter. “Sometimes you need thumping.”  
“I thought…” Steve speaks slowly, seeking out each word as though stumbling through the dark, uncertain of his next step. “I thought it was all in my head. That I… that I saw what I wanted to see.”  
Bucky is finding his way through the darkness too. “What did you want to see?”  
“That you cared.” The answer comes quickly. “That you weren’t just doing your duty, that you weren’t just being nice. That you… cared. For me.”  
“I do.” Bucky runs his thumb along the edge of the counter, because if he looks at Steve, sees the raw, open expression on his face, he’ll not be able to utter another word. “I do care.”

Steve takes a faltering step towards him. “I don’t want you to be here because I… need fixing. I don’t want you to be with me because you feel _obligated_. There has to be something in this for you.”  
Bucky closes his eyes, because some things are easier to say in darkness. “There is.”  
He feels Steve move closer, rather than sees it. Feels the warms of his skin on the lightness of his breath.  
“I was alone a long time. I got used to it. I didn’t much like it, but…” Bucky shrugs. “Then you came barging into my shop-”  
“I did not barge-”  
“You barged.” Bucky opens his eyes and meets Steve’s gaze. “And I’m glad you did. And you worry about me taking care of you? What about all the things you’ve done for me, hmm?” Bucky reaches down and pushes his fingers into the palm of Steve’s hand. Steve’s fingers splay out, wrapping around him and holding tightly. “I have flowers in my garden, and shelves in the storeroom that don’t need to be propped up with books, and I eat at least one vegetable a day.”  
Steve lets out a damp cough of laughter. “Sure you do.”  
“You don’t believe me?” Bucky asks, incredulous. “I have carrots out back, you want me to eat one in front of you? If you won’t take my word for it?”  
Steve shakes his head, and Bucky can’t tell if he’s laughing or crying. Maybe it’s both.  
“We take care of each other, alright?” Bucky tangles their fingers together. “It’s not one or the other.”  
Steve nods, rubbing his nose with his free hand.  
“I don’t…” Steve pauses, drawing in a deep breath. “I don’t want to be where you’re not.”  
“So don’t,” Bucky says simply.

Steve leans into him, bowing his head to press their foreheads together. He touches his fingertips to the tags around Bucky’s neck, the delicate curl of their edges. Bucky wonders if Steve can feel his own heart within them, thrumming against his fingers, like Bucky can with his. He reaches up to grasp them, and his heart beats against the palm of his hand, steady and strong.  
“Why aren’t we kissing?” A smile stretches Bucky’s mouth wide, and he tugs Steve towards him. “We should definitely be-”  
Steve’s mouth is warm and fervent against his, and Bucky opens up to him, trading kisses deep and sweet. He tastes like sunlight filtering through green leaves, like river stones washed smooth by the currents.  
Like home.


	6. The Holly and the Ivy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky shrugs, pulling the brim of his hat down to cover his face. “I’d like sunflowers.”

Thunder rumbles again, and the thick layer of clouds over their heads grows darker.  
The air is heavy, the sharp scent of iron filling Bucky’s senses as he shudders, and tugs the collar of his coat up against the wind. The rain drums down on the brim of his hat, soaking into the battered cloth and dripping from the rim in a steady stream.  
“Come _on_ ,” Pietro yells, racing off ahead.  
Wanda follows at his heels, the rain shying away from her wine-red hat, the point sharp as a needle and standing straight upwards. Mud doesn’t touch her sleek red coat either, as she picks up her skirts and runs up the hill, away from the waterlogged fields and the huddled sheep.  
Bucky hangs back a little, watching as the twins climb to the top of the slope. A sheep spirit rolls over to him, nudging against his legs, and Bucky crouches down to say hello to it.  
He looks down the slope, back the way they came, and sees Steve trudging along, taking up the rear. He’s dressed in warm clothes at least, his oilskin jacket holding off the worse of the rain, but he might be the only person on the northern coast who is currently muddier than Bucky is.  
He has a kite under his arm, the broad side of it catching the wind and slowing him down, but he doesn’t complain. It’s one of Wanda’s finest works, a great red dragon with a long, tapering tail, currently wound up in a bundle and looped over Steve’s arm.  
Steve squints through the rain at the twins, running around at the summit. He’s too much of a stubborn idiot to wear a hat, and getting soaked for it. Rain plasters his blond hair to his head, dripping down the collar of his coat. He swipes his hand through his beard, trying to scrub the worst of the rain away, and gives Bucky a resigned smile. “Had to be a thunderstorm, right?”

Thunder rolls again, closer this time, and Bucky lets out a soft whimper. The spirit sheep at his heels skitters away, frizzing up nervously, and Steve’s smile turns to a look of gentle concern.  
“How are you holding up?”  
There is a flash of lightning on the horizon, and Bucky sucks in a sharp, shallow breath. “Been better.”  
Steve hurries over to him, dropping the kite on the ground so he can wrap his arms around Bucky’s shoulders and pull him in to a tight hug.  
Bucky sags into his embrace, pushing the brim of his hat out the way so he can tuck his face into the warm crook of Steve’s neck.  
“You’re shaking,” Steve whispers, chafing his hands down Bucky’s spine. Bucky says nothing, just lets his hands drop to his sides and hang limply while he breathes in the comforting scent of him.  
“You smell like summer,” Bucky mumbles against the scruff of Steve’s beard. Summer and indigo and stones washed smooth by the river.  
“Well, you smell like wet sheep,” Steve laughs, and hugs him tighter.  
Bucky musters up the strength to poke Steve in the ribs. “How dare.”  
Steve laughs again and puts his lips to Bucky’s ear. “It’s okay to be scared.”  
“I’m not scared,” Bucky tells Steve’s shoulder, but he knows it’s a lie.  
“Well, why would you be?” Steve asks, cupping his hand around the nape of Bucky’s neck and making him shiver for a wholly different reason. “When we have a dragon to keep us safe.”

The kite had been Wanda’s idea. She did not have Bucky’s reasons to fear lightning, but she had plenty of her own, and refused to see her brother work his weather magic alone. So she sat at her loom and wove a kite, a dragon to soar through the skies. Bucky had sat with her while she worked, and weaved his own spells into the delicate silk thread, passing it through her fingers as he told it the stories of the sea, of the great gales that wrecked ships and the light summer breeze that cast dandelion seeds.  
When it was done they had carried it out to the fields and Wanda had worked her spell. At the crook of her fingers the kite had glowed like the embers of a fire. At the wave of her hands it had soared up into the air, spinning through the clouds in a spiral dance before coming down to earth again, sleek and graceful as a cat.  
Bucky has nothing to fear, he is surrounded by his family. But still his heart trips and stumbles when the lightning flashes in great arcs across the skies, and his body trembles at the roll of thunder. His arm aches, the pain sharp and shooting across his skin, and no salve or balm can dull it.  
Bucky peeks out from the cradle of Steve’s arms, and sees the twins darting back and forth. Pietro’s arms raised, calling the storm towards him. He hides away again and Steve shushes him, his touch a comfort so sweet it borders on painful.  
“It’s okay,” Steve whispers. “It’s going to be okay.”  
Thunder rumbles around them, and Bucky flinches again. Were he alone he wouldn’t shake so much. He would grit his teeth and plough through the storm, and only when he was in the safety of his cottage would he allow himself to tremble and moan, to let himself be afraid.  
But there are arms wound tightly around him and the sound of laughter on the wind. He is safe. He can be afraid.

Even wrapped up in Steve’s embrace he can hear the sound of running feet, boots slapping in the mud.  
“Bucky?” Wanda’s voice has a tremulous edge, of care and concern. “Bucky if it’s too much we don’t have to do this today, we can-”  
“No.” Bucky screws his eyes shut and gently extricates himself from Steve’s arms. “No, I’m fine.”  
“It can wait,” Steve echoes. “There’s no rush.”  
“Really.” Bucky shakes his head. “I’m fine.”  
Wanda and Steve exchange doubtful looks, and Bucky heaves in another breath.  
“Are you sure?” Steve asks.  
“I’m fine,” Bucky says, and to his surprise it’s true. “I’m fine.”  
If Wanda doubts him she doesn’t say as much, just wraps her arms around the both of them, hugging them tightly. Steve takes up the embrace without hesitation, wrapping one arm around Wanda’s waist and the other around Bucky’s. Bucky lets himself be held, taking the comfort so willingly offered, and Wanda flicks up the brim of his hat and kisses him on the cheek.  
“The storm’s getting close,” Wanda says quickly. “Come on if you’re coming.”  
She grabs the kite from where Steve left it, shaking it out so the tail unfurls like a streamer before running back up the slope.  
Steve holds out his hand. “Shall we?”  
His hands are warm and rough as they wrap around Bucky’s, their fingers interlacing.  
Bucky takes a last look at the bruised sky. “Oak and ash,” he mutters. “We shall.”

The storm is on top of them by the time Bucky reaches the summit, the rain flowing down the hill in sheets.  
“Ready?” Wanda asks them all, and Bucky bites down on the urge to answer ‘no’.  
She curls her fingers, extending her arms towards the kite lying at her feet. Magic shimmers around it in a faint red mist, curling around the woven silk and lifting it into the air. Wanda turns her hands in a circle, inscribing a shape in the air before her, and the kite follows her movements, twining around over their heads. With a flick of her fingers the kite darts up into the clouds, soaring between the crack and thunder as the world trembles.  
Bucky’s arm stings with every burst of light above them, and the dragon chases the spark and flash across the sky, circling around like a shepherd’s dog.  
“Pietro?” Bucky calls out, watching the clouds loom closer. “Are you ready?”  
The boy shakes out his shoulders, his feet planted firmly in the mud. “I was born ready!”  
Wanda gives him a glare before returning her attention to the kite, the dragon flashing in and out of the clouds.  
“Just remember to relax,” Bucky tells him. “Don’t force it. You have to let it come to you, and let it go if it doesn’t want to stay.”  
If the lightning refuses him, the kite will channel the strike away, sending it down to the earth where it will disperse safely. But if Pietro snatches at it, if he grabs hold of it and won’t let go, that’s when things can take a turn for the worse.  
“Pietro-” Bucky warns.  
“I got it!” Pietro shouts, his head tipped back, rain streaming down his face. “I’m ready.”  
Up on the hill with his face to the sky, the kid looks like a drowned rat. A radiant, exhilarated drowned rat.  
“Blessings be upon you,” Bucky says, and gives himself over to fate.

Pietro claps his hands together, listening for the thunderclaps and counting down, finding the rhythm of the storm before pushing his way into the song.  
He raises his right hand as the clouds light up. “C’mon,” he calls, clicking his fingers like he’s calling to a pet dog. “Over here, come on.”  
Threads of lightning arc across the cloud, flashing back and forth as the kite circles them. A single thread of silver light darts down, striking the earth to the left of Pietro. He doesn’t chase after it, holding his ground.  
“Come on, don’t be shy,” he coaxes as another bolt of lightning flashes down beside him.  
“Don’t chase it,” Bucky calls to him. “Let it come to you.”  
“Yes, dad,” Pietro calls back, his tone light and teasing.  
Pietro clicks his fingers again, moving with the storm, and at last a bolt comes down towards him. He reaches up to meet it and Bucky flinches, tightening his grip on Steve’s hand.  
The lightning dances down Pietro’s arm and he twists with it, following where it wants to go and spinning in a half circle. The charge flickers across his body, flowing like water and Pietro laughs, high and bright as he holds up his hands and the lightning leaps back and forth between them.

Bucky’s arm stings like he has dragged his hand through a nettle patch, alternating hot and cold as it prickles and burns. He stares as electric blue pulses dance over Pietro’s hands, before finally darting to the earth and discharging harmlessly. Pietro whoops with delight, his shock of white hair standing on end.  
“Am I have a heart attack?” Bucky hisses to Steve. He can feel his pulse in his fingertips, against the band of his hat, thumping erratically. “I think I’m having a heart attack.”  
“Shh,” Steve smiles at him. “You’re fine.”  
Wanda shrieks with delight and goes running up to her brother, throwing her arms around him and making him stumble backwards.  
“Did you see that?” Pietro yells, triumphant. “Did you see it?!”  
The kite tumbles to the ground, weighed down by the rain, and Bucky’s feet move without his instruction, carrying him up the slope. Steve, dragged along by the hand behind him, laughs, his boots slipping in the mud. Bucky ploughs into the twins, and they stumble in the rain in a tangled heap of grasping hands and wide brimmed hats. Pietro laughs, assaulted on either side by Wanda’s sharply cut brim and Bucky’s soggy, crumpled point.  
Steve rescues the kite and stands at a polite distance, before Wanda huffs impatiently and snags him by the sleeve, pulling him into the scrum.

“Okay, okay,” Pietro says at last and swats them away, breathless and red faced. “You gotta let me breathe sometime.”  
Bucky quickly lets go, pulling Steve back with him, but Wanda holds on resolutely.  
“Not letting go,” she says firmly, and kisses her brother on the cheek.  
He grins, fierce and proud. “You sure about that? You’ll get fried to a crisp.”  
Of course once isn’t enough, and Pietro has to try again. Bucky wouldn’t expect any less from him  
Wanda, however, scowls at him, but steps back, retrieving the kite from Steve and sending it up into the air before giving him an exaggerated bow. “Whenever you’re ready.”  
Bucky’s arm itches as Pietro reaches up to the clouds, and he leans against Steve for support.  
“You okay?” Steve asks softly and Bucky nods.  
“Yeah.” He leans his head against Steve’s shoulder as light arcs across the sky. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

Over the course of the morning the rain has works its way down the collar of Bucky’s coat, soaking the back of his shirt, and he finally calls it a day.  
As well as Pietro has done, he’s still learning, and Bucky is not about to leave him out in the field to drown or somehow set himself on fire. He closes his ears to Pietro’s grumbling, though he does quieten down when Wanda hikes her skirt out of the mud and announces that she’s freezing.  
The rain continues to pour as they walk down the slope. Steve carries Wanda’s kite, the tail flicking back and forth in the wind, and without Steve’s hand to hold on to Bucky chafes his palms together as he tries to warm up. His feet feel like blocks of ice from standing around half buried in mud all day, and his fingers are numb. Although his arm feels prickly and sore, like a nettle rash, it doesn’t burn as much as it did before. Bucky pulls up his sleeve and studies the scars thoughtfully. They are no less silver, his skin underneath mottled, but the pain is… less sharp.  
He pulls the sleeve back down and folds his arms across his chest, the brim of his hat sagging over his eyes.  
When they reach the shepherds cottage the twins live in Pietro darts through the door without a word, stripping off his coat and kicking off his boots while Wanda takes the kite from Steve.  
“Go home,” she tells them both, giving Steve a kiss high up on his cheek, above the scruff of his beard.  
“How come I don’t get a kiss?” Bucky asks, and gets a pinch on the cheek for his trouble before Wanda shuts the door.  
“That hat has gone to her head,” Bucky mutters. “Any day now she’ll start cackling.”  
Steve laughs, the sound deep and rich. He ducks his head under the brim of Bucky’s hat and kisses him on the corner of his mouth, brief and sweet.  
He pulls away, and Bucky grabs him by the collar, drawing him in for another. One kiss becomes two, dragging the flat of his tongue against Steve’s parted teeth, and his breath catches and rasps.  
On a hillside in the rain is no place to linger, as impatient as Bucky is to tastes Steve’s lips again, and hurry back to the village, heads bowed against the rain.

They enter the cottage through the greenhouse, tugging off their coats and kicking off their boots. Steve hangs their coats up over the wide washbasin in the greenhouse, while Bucky squelches his way into the workroom in his muddy socks and checks on the fire. He rakes out the ashes and adds a couple of logs while Steve collects up their boots, stuffing them with paper and putting them on the hearth to dry.  
Bucky takes off his hat and wrings out the point, rainwater dripping between his fingers and soaking into the tiles under his feet. He hangs the hat on the back of his chair and scrubs his hands through his soaking hair.  
“What do I need?” he asks Steve absently. “Shower or tea?”  
“Both.” Steve fills the kettle and hangs it over the fire. “Shower, then tea.”  
“Mmph.” Bucky’s fingers get tangled in his hair, and carefully eases them free. “You’re a genius.”  
He clumps his way up the stairs, struggling out of his shirt as he goes. He could leave it on the top step and Steve would grab it on the way up, but Bucky carries it to the bathroom, dropping the sopping bundle in the sink before turning on the shower.  
He sits on the edge of the toilet while he peels off his socks, adding them to the heap while hopping from one foot to the other as he works off his trousers and underwear.  
The water has heated up by the time he checks the spray, and nudges at the cold tap until the temperature drops from scalding to merely boiling, and climbs into the shower.

There is an assortment of soaps on the shelf and Bucky picks through them, letting his instincts lead as he settles on a bar the colour of seafoam, flecked with shreds of kelp. He holds the bar up to his mouth and breathes deeply, remembering the feel on sun on his back and a pencil in his hand, scratching out the shapes of long ribbons of seaweed in his battered, salt-stained grimoire. Bucky smiles to himself, wondering if there are Witches who don’t spend half their life soaked to the bone, before scrubbing the bar between his hands and working up a lather.  
He glances up at the sound of the bathroom door opening, and watches Steve coming in and undressing, adding his own clothes to the pile in the sink.  
“Ouch,” Steve flinches as he ducks under the spray, and Bucky grudgingly adds a little more cold water. He scrubs himself down with the rich, salt-scented foam, and ducks to one side as Steve reaches for the shampoo, squeezing a generous amount into his hand. The heady scent of lavender fills the small space, carried on the steam, and Bucky ducks his head under the spray, the water sluicing down his body.  
“Turn around?” Steve murmurs after a few moments, and Bucky offers him his back.  
Steve pushes his fingers into Bucky’s hair, tugging it free from the cord around his neck and massaging the shampoo into the tangles. Bucky lets out a bone-weary sigh, a sound dredged up from the pit of his stomach, and lets himself relax at last.  
“Are you okay?” Steve asks, pressings his thumbs behind Bucky’s ears and moving them in slow circles. “Does it hurt?”  
Bucky would shake his head, but then Steve would stop what he was doing. Instead he leans back, pressing his shoulders to the expanse of Steve’s chest. “Yeah. Keep doing that.”  
Steve huffs but does as Bucky asks, teasing his fingers through Bucky’s hair and ducking his head to kiss the curve of Bucky’s shoulder.  
Bucky turns around to face him, tilting his head back and letting the water wash away the soap and last traces of mud.

Steve runs his fingers across Bucky’s shoulders, his touch light as Bucky turns the soap in his hands, working up a foam. He scrubs it across Steve’s shoulders, suds clinging to the tags resting on the center of his chest. Bucky continues down, working the lather over the firm lines of Steve’s stomach and dragging his palms up, slippery and teasing. He lingers on the swell of Steve’s pectorals, drawing his palms in tight little circles across his nipples until they are pebbled and taut. Steve cock twitches against Bucky’s thigh, and he pushes Bucky’s hands away. “I think I’m clean,” he laughs.  
Bucky makes a doubtful sound, but lets him take away the soap and put it back on the shelf.  
“Are you sure it doesn’t hurt?” Steve asks, drawing his hand down Bucky’s scarred arm.  
There will be a day when the scars don’t bother Bucky. When he’ll wear short sleeves in the summer and not think twice about any glances that come his way. But for now, he will keep them covered, save for moments like this, when he lets Steve touch him, gentle and revering, pressing his lips to the lightning strikes that twist across his arm, the bristles of his beard tickling the once numb skin.  
“It… prickles,” Bucky says, frowning to himself.  
“Prickles?” Steve runs his thumb along a silvery scar, sending a thrill down Bucky’s spine. “What does that mean?”  
“I think.” Bucky kisses the jut of Steve’s chin, the bristles of his beard tickling his lips. “I think it’s healing.”  
Steve presses their foreheads together, water running in rivulets down his smiling face. Bucky smiles too, because how could he not, and curls his fingers against the nape of Steve’s neck, nudging their mouths together.

They trade slow, lazy kisses as Bucky wraps his arms around Steve’s shoulders, pulling him down. In turn Steve settles his hands on Bucky’s waist, his touch turning rough as Bucky nips at his parted lips, catching the bristles of his beard between his teeth and tugging playfully.  
Steve pushes him up against the wall, the cold tiles warming under the hot spray, and presses his stiffening cock to Bucky’s hip. Bucky lets out a pleased groan, his own cock pulsing and thickening in anticipation as Steve reaches for the shelf and grabs a bottle of lotion. He tips a little into his hand, spilling some in his haste, the water washing it down the drain as he wraps his slick hand around Bucky’s cock.  
Bucky lets out a sharp gasp at the contact, and Steve draws his thumb over the crown of Bucky’s cock in teasing little circles, pushing back the foreskin to reveal the crown. Bucky presses his face to Steve’s shoulder, mouthing at the smooth curve of muscle, tasting salt and seaweed. Steve drags his thumb along the underside of the shaft before wrapping his hand around Bucky’s length, and Bucky whines, sharp and high, his hips kicking instinctively. He braces his hands against Steve’s hips, thumbs digging into the crease of his thighs as he thrusts into Steve’s fist.  
Steve murmurs something, sweet words lost in the spray of water, and cups his hand against Bucky’s cheek, lifting his face up to kiss him, again and again. And though Bucky can’t catch the words Steve whispers to the water, he reads them in the shape of his hands, in the curve of his smile.

Bucky trembles, suddenly too close to the edge, and pushes the hand wrapped around his cock away. Steve makes a questioning noise and Bucky kisses him, slow and deep.  
“Not like that.” Bucky isn’t sure what he wants, it’s not something he can put into words. The weight of Steve against him, filling his senses, the press of mouths and hands and salt-scented skin.  
“Like what, then?” Steve asks, and Bucky silences him with a kiss, his tongue darting between Steve’s teeth, and presses his back to the tiles, pulling Steve with him.  
“Bucky?” Steve breaks the kiss, bracing a hand against the wall, fingers still slippery with lotion.  
“All of you,” Bucky says at last, nudging his nose against Steve’s. “And all of me.”  
Understanding lights up Steve’s eyes, and he moves forward, crowding Bucky up against the tiled wall until there is not a breath of space between them, pressed together from shoulder to hip. He lets out a sharp gasp when Bucky’s hands slide down to his ass, cupping his hips and sliding their cocks together.  
“Come on,” Bucky rasps, before sucking Steve’s full lower lip into his mouth and worrying it with his teeth.

Steve lets out a low, throaty moan as Bucky grinds against him and starts to thrust, water running down their bodies in a torrent. He cups his hands to the sharp line of Bucky’s jaw and kisses him in return, rough and clumsy, pressing his thumbs to the wide stretch of Bucky’s mouth.  
There is magic sparking through Bucky’s fingers, threads of golden fire arcing up his spine and spilling into his veins. He feels it flow through him, like sunlight catching the waves, blinding in its brightness. He draws his hands along Steve’s body, slick with heat and water, and feels the bunch and flex of his muscles as he thrusts. For a sweet, aching moment he balances on the shining edge of bliss, aware of every sensation; the tiles pressing into his back, the hard line of Steve’s cock against his, the heat of Steve’s breath in his mouth.  
“Oh,” Bucky sighs, letting his head drop back and thump against the tiles as he comes, spilling on Steve’s stomach. Steve lets out a gasp, almost pained, his movements becoming erratic.  
“Stevie,” Bucky whispers, pressing kisses to his slack, panting mouth. “Come on, love.”  
Steve hips stutter as he comes, crumpling against Bucky, who cradles him in his arms.  
“Oak and ash,” Bucky murmurs, pushing Steve’s soaking hair out of his face. He kisses Steve’s temples, dragging his lips across the furrow of his brow and the bridge of his nose as Steve curls around him, until there is no part of them that is not tangled together, irrevocably intertwined.

***

Steve pulls back the curtain and peers out at the layer of snow blanketing the village below.  
“Glaring at it won’t make it melt,” Bucky says, his voice muffled by the blankets he’s buried under.  
Steve hums in acknowledgement, watching as the soft white flakes drift down, spinning in the wind and settling on the branches of the trees either side of the lane. The early morning light is muted in the snowfall, the world silent and still.  
“If it keeps coming down like this they’ll have to cancel the Winter Festival,” Steve sighs, folding his arms on the windowsill.  
Bucky tugs down the blanket covering his face. “They wouldn’t dare!”  
“That’s true.” Steve huffs, his breath clouding the window, and he wipes the condensation away with the flat of his hand. “The world could end in fire and ice and Mr Dugan would be there in the thick of it asking what time the pub opens.”  
Bucky snorts, and gives the blanket wound around Steve’s waist a sharp pull. “Come back to bed, you’re letting the cold in.”  
It’s a poor excuse, the soot spirits keep the cottage warm, even in the depths of winter, but Steve let’s the curtain drop back into place and lies down again.  
The bed is far too small for two people, but even if it was a mile wide Bucky would still tuck himself against Steve’s side. Steve lifts his arm up and Bucky curls up against him, pillowing his head on Steve’s shoulder as he pulls the blankets around them. Their bodies wrap around each other, instinctively slotting together in a cosy tangle of limbs, and Steve traces shapes with his fingers across Bucky’s shoulders. Bucky hums, warm and contented, as leaves and flowers are traced on his skin, oak leaves and acorns and jagged stems of holly.

The preparations for the Winter Festival have been ongoing since the moment the Harvest Festival ended, and the villagers will not let a bit of snow get in the way of a celebration. The canvases Steve painted with holly leaves and ivy vines that have been taking up space in the storeroom will finally be hung out on display, as will the fairy lights Bucky has already stored in boxes at the square. They have little to do with fairies, being spirit bottles filled with moon moths and will-o-the-wisps tied to lengths of cord, and Bucky will hang them from the oak tree and string them across the square, shedding light over the celebrations.  
Bucky grimaces, tucking his head under Steve’s chin. “Oh balls,” he hisses.  
Steve laughs, despite Bucky’s weight on his chest. “You’ve just remembered how much there is to do today.”  
“So much,” Bucky sighs, but it will be worth it. He gives Steve a mock hopeful look. “Maybe they will cancel?”  
Steve laughs again, and gives Bucky a kiss in sympathy. “Come on, up you get. I’ll make tea.”  
He climbs out of bed, ignoring Bucky's pleas for a few more minutes, and grabs some clean clothes before heading to the bathroom.  
Bucky pulls the blankets over his head and pretends to be asleep until Steve comes out again, dressed in warm woollen trousers and a thick blue sweater.  
“Up.” Steve pats the blankets where Bucky’s leg might be. “Can’t spend all day in bed.”  
Bucky yawns, sitting up and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “I could _try_.”  
Steve kisses the top of his tousled head. “I’ll see you downstairs.”

Bucky mumbles incoherently and watches Steve clatter down the stairs. He gives himself a minute to wake up, savouring the warm blankets and the lingering scent of Steve on the pillow, sunshine and indigo, before clambering out of bed and shambling to the bathroom.  
He showers and shaves before getting dressed, pulling on warm, thick layers and woollen socks on before dragging a brush through his damp hair and heading downstairs.  
The windows in the workroom have been thrown open, filling the air with the crisp scent of snow, and Bucky crouches down in front of the fire. Cinnamon, curled up in a ball on the hearth, lets out a soft yip, lifting her head up for a scratch between the ears.  
“Good morning, trouble,” Bucky murmurs, stroking her soft fur, and she yips again, rolling onto her back to expose her stomach. Bucky obliges her with a quick tummy rub, and looks up at Steve. He’s busy filling the teapot from the cast iron kettle, and there is a telltale hint of red about his ears. “Did you let her in last night?”  
“It was snowing,” Steve says briskly, putting the kettle back over the fire and searching for clean cups.  
It’s the little things that still trip Bucky up sometimes, makes his breath catch and his heart stumble, and he hopes that he’ll never become accustomed to Steve and his small, thoughtful acts of kindness. That he never stops having to catch his breath sometimes, his heart full.  
Steve pauses to bend down and kiss Bucky’s forehead, moving around him in the cramped space easily as he sets breakfast out on the desk. There will be a feast later on at the festival, so he keeps things simple. Tea is poured and thick slices of bread are toasted, and Bucky joins him at the desk to pile hedgerow jam on his slice while Steve spreads peanut butter on another, cutting it into small pieces before putting it on a plate on the hearth for Cinnamon.  
“Eat your breakfast, Steve,” Bucky murmurs, pushing his chair with a foot.  
Steve does as he’s asked and helps himself to a slice of toast, spreading it with a thin layer of peanut butter.  
They eat in silence, Bucky propping his foot on Steve’s chair and prodding him until Steve moves it onto his lap, curling his hand around Bucky’s ankle.

Bucky pulls on his boots, warmed by the fire, and checks on the plants in the greenhouse while Steve takes care of the dishes. He checks the seed trays and picks through the overwintering plants and woody stemmed herbs while Cinnamon follows at his feet, sniffing curiously at the stacks of empty pots and packets of seeds.  
Bucky grabs the bundle of mistletoe before she can get too close, putting it up on a high shelf.  
“Not for you, Cinnamon bun,” he chides, tapping the racoon on the nose. She sneezes, rubbing her snout with her paw, and wanders off in search of trouble.  
“Bucky?” Steve asks, putting his head through the doorway. “Are you all set?”  
He nods, washing his hands in the sink before fetching his coat. Steve, already wrapped up in his winter coat and scarf, gathers together the last few pieces of canvas, tucking them under his arm.  
Bucky’s hat is sitting on a high shelf, Noodle curled around the base of the cone like a long yellow ribbon. Bucky picks it up before carefully unwinding the snake. “Sorry, Noodle,” he says, stroking the snakes glossy scales. “It’s too cold for you outside.”  
Noodle winds around his arm and Bucky takes him out to the shop, putting him on the shelf with the spirit bottles. The snake spirit, puddled in the base of his bottle, perks up, forming into a coil and bumping its snout against the glass. Noodle slides across the shelf to join it, looping his coils around the bottle companionably.  
With his hat firmly on his head, the point sagging comfortably, and the mistletoe bundled up in his arms, Bucky is ready to leave. Steve shoulders open the door and they set off for the village.

The square has already been cleared of snow by the time they arrive. People pass brooms across the cobbles while children throw themselves into the piles of snow swept into the side streets, shrieking with laughter. A few of the more industrious ones are already building snowmen, and Steve points out that one of them has a lumpy, conical hat and a radish for a nose. Bucky rubs his nose thoughtfully and points out the snowman next to it, handfuls of straw mashed into its round face and a short, wonky carrot for a nose. Steve laughs, scrubbing his gloved hand through his beard, and they hurry on to the square before they get caught in the crossfire of a snowball fight.  
For once, stalls are not being set up around the square for market day, the space being left clear for dancing and celebrations. Steve ducks under the brim of Bucky’s hat and kisses him on the cheek before setting off to his tasks, putting up the painted canvases and decorations around the square.  
Bucky tends to his own work, stringing up fairy lights around the oak tree and across the square. The lights will shine brighter as the skies darken, the cold kept at bay by cast iron fire pits and chimineas arranged around the square.  
Bucky is so focused on his works that he barely notices as the square slowly fills with workers and volunteers. Tables along one side of the square are set out and spread with deep green cloths, candles and lanterns set at intervals and sprigs of holly and pine scattered between them.  
When Bucky finishes with the fairy lights he moves on to the mistletoe, tying sprigs with red ribbon and hanging them in nooks and corners around the square. When Pietro arrives to help out, he hunts Bucky out, begging for a sprig of his own. Bucky hands it over with a warning, and he dashes off in search of pretty girls to charm.

By the time Bucky is done, the square is transformed. Steve’s paintings of green leaves and red berries, robins and wild stags strutting between the leaves, are hanging from every building, and the fairy lights have already begun to glow softly as the day draws on. There are chairs lined up in out of the way places and long, low benches for people to sit and rest. The tables are laden down with food; pies and breads and pastries donated by the local merchants, along with wheels of cheese, cakes and tarts, and ribbon wrapped parcels of chocolate and cinder toffee. There are jugs of berry cordial and lemonade for those who do not drink, and bottles of wine and casks of beer for those who do, presided over by Mr Dugan, who keeps a sharp eye out for the older children looking to get drunk. There is also a cask of sweet cider, but Bucky has his eye on the cauldron of mulled wine and goes in search of Steve.  
He finds him helping the band set up, stacking crates together for a makeshift stage.  
“Steve.” Bucky tugs the cuff of his shirt impatiently once the last box is hammered in place.  
“Hey, Buck,” Steve smiles at him, pushing his blond hair out of his eyes. He looks around at the square, at the people starting to arrive. “Just in time, eh?”  
“Wine,” Bucky says without preamble. “They have mulled wine.”  
Steve laughs, low and sweet. “Alright, let’s get some.”

Dugan greets them warmly and hands Bucky a mug of sweet, hot wine spiked with cinnamon and oranges. He holds the mug to his chest, breathing in the heady aroma while Steve takes a cup of ale, switching it to his left so he can hold Bucky’s hand while they take a walk around the square.  
Bucky sips his wine slowly, smiling and nodding along as people stop them to make conversation. There is a crowd forming around the tables, people filling their plates with good things to eat, and the square quickly fills with people drinking and chattering.  
Bucky searches the crowds, looking for Wanda’s tall, red hat, and finds her sitting under the oak tree with Shuri, who leaps to her feet as Bucky approaches.  
“There you are!” Shuri wraps an arm around Bucky’s shoulder, holding her glass of wine to one side to keep from spilling it. She is radiant in a silver minidress, isipho threaded through her leggings to keep her warm. Her face is unpainted, but she wears a choker of cowrie shells gathered from a distant shore.  
“Little magpie.” Bucky hugs her back. “How have you been? Has Wanda been behaving herself?”  
Wanda makes a scornful sound and gets up to hug Bucky in turn. He lets go of Shuri and quickly wraps her up in his arms. If he could he wouldn’t let go.  
For the last few months she has been travelling with Shuri, getting to see a little more of the world. Bucky misses her fiercely when she is away, but it is tempered with the knowledge that where ever she is, she is safe and among friends.  
“How has that brother of mine been?” Wanda asks, her grip around Bucky showing no signs of loosening.  
Bucky is not going to complain, he can hold a conversation like this. “Last I saw him he was running around with mistletoe.”  
“Oh dear,” Wanda sighs. “Have the girls around here no taste?”  
Shuri cackles gleefully, and Bucky finally lets Wanda go. “Have you told him yet?”  
Wanda shakes her head. “We were waiting for you.”  
Bucky looks between them, biting his lip. “Do you think he’ll say yes?”  
The girls look at each other, and Shuri shrugs. “You don’t know until you ask.”

There is a commotion at the entrance to the square, a susurration of whispers as conversations stumble to a halt and people stop and stare.  
Bucky pushes his way through the throng to the entrance, pulling his hat straight, to see what the fuss is about. He is met with the sight of two dozen Jabari tribesmen, the Woodsman at the lead. He stands before the villagers, tall and broad and grim-faced, dressed in a cloak of pine branches and moss.  
“M’Baku.” Bucky crosses his arms over his chest and bows. “I’m so glad you could make it!”  
“Bucky!” M’Baku’s features light up with a broad grin. “Thank you for the invite.”  
The villagers relax, and caution becomes curiosity as the Jabari are led into the square. M’Baku clicks his fingers and a handful of his people come forth, carrying pots and barrels.  
“We have brought a few things along,” M’Baku says with a flash of teeth. “Lest we eat you out of house and home.”  
“This way.” Bucky points to the tables laden with food and the Jabari quickly make room for the new dishes. M’Baku’s eyes light up at the array of cheeses, and Bucky makes a note to introduce him to the family who run the dairy.  
“We also brought ale.” M’Baku snaps his fingers again, and a pair of Jabari approach Dugan with their barrels. “If you are partial to such things.”  
“Very partial.” Dugan grins, tipping the brim of his hat towards M’Baku. “What say you join me for a drink? Or ten?”  
M’Baku lets out a shout of laughter, clapping his hands together, and Dugan draws him a mug of ale.  
“Get your lips around that, Mountain man,” he holds the mug out. “There’s drinking to be done.”

Nothing brings people together like good food and strong beer, and before long the Jabari scattered around the square, chatting easily with the villagers.  
Reassured, Bucky goes in search of Steve and finds him sharing an ale with farmer Barton, watching as his nephews weave between the crowds with the other children.  
“Whoop!” Bucky gets spun around as they loop around him before one dashes off, the other in pursuit.  
Steve grabs him by the hand, pulling him to safety. “Not sure who’s chasing who.”  
Barton’s sister is sitting in a chair beside them, her daughter dozing against her shoulder.  
“Laura,” Bucky smiles. “How are you?”  
“Tired,” she answers honestly, and Bucky nods, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together, a little spell for strength and serenity. Steve catches sight of the thread of gold shimmering there as Bucky presses his fingers to the back of Laura’s hand. She heaves a sigh and smiles, giving Bucky’s arm a pat. She opens her mouth to say something and stops short, her eyes widening.  
“Oh,” she murmurs. “Would you look at that.”  
Bucky turns around, following the line of her gaze, and sees Peggy coming into the square, Angie at her side. She is dressed in a suit, topped with a red hat, while Angie is wearing a festively dark green dress with red ribbons in her hair. Her hand is tucked in the crook of Peggy’s elbow, and she looks around, nervous but happy, so happy it seems to radiate out from her like sunlight. Peggy kisses her cheek, murmuring something in her ear, and Angie giggles while Peggy looks around the square defiantly.  
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Barton huffs. “Took ‘em long enough.”  
Steve puts down his cup before pushing his way into the crowd, and Bucky follows after him.  
“Peggy!” Steve greets her with a quick, firm hug, his hands pausing on her shoulders. “You look lovely.”  
“Thank you,” Peggy smiles. “You look... a mess!”  
Steve looks down at himself, splotches of paint on his woolen sleeves. “Yes, I suppose I do,” he laughs.  
“You look beautiful,” Bucky tells Angie as he wraps his arms around her. She leans into him, ducking out of the way of his hat.  
“Damn right, I do,” she agrees, pulling back and smoothing down the front of her dress. She gives Steve a wink. “How you doing, honey?”  
Steve blushes but gives her a hug, careful not to crease her dress, and Bucky tips his hat back and kisses Peggy on the cheek.  
“So you’re finally making it official?” Bucky asks, and Angie holds up her hand, displaying the silver band on her finger.  
“She’s making an honest woman of me,” Peggy says softly.  
“Sweetheart, nothing could do that,” Angie counters with a sly grin.  
Peggy ignores her teasing. “We were thinking a summer wedding.”  
Steve looks delighted at the news, and Bucky takes hold of Peggy’s arm and pulls her away before he can start talking about flowers.  
“Come on,” Bucky says as Angie and Steve start discussing colour schemes. “There’s someone you should meet.”  
“Please,” Peggy says emphatically. 

Peggy and M’Baku take to each other immediately, and when the conversation, lubricated by a few cups of dark stout, turns to horses, Bucky leaves them to it.  
As much as he’s tempted by the mulled wine, Bucky goes to the tables laid with food to see what’s on offer. One of the Jabari dishes is a rich, herb flecked mushroom soup, and Bucky pours himself a cupful, savouring the rich, earthy flavour as he wanders around the square.  
The band strikes up and a handful of people pair up and start to dance, although most are content to eat and talk for a while, or nod along to the music while they let their meals settle. When the casks of beer are a little emptier everyone will be kicking up their heels and taking a turn on the floor, young and old alike.  
He sees Pietro on the floor, dancing with one of the farmers daughters, and feels a sting of sorrow.  
He’ll miss them, he’ll miss them so much that some nights it will burn, deep under his ribs. But that’s no reason to keep them from their futures.  
“Pietro!” he calls, waving a hand in the air.  
Pietro looks up, and comes jogging over. “I’ve been on my best behaviour, who’s been saying-”  
“No, nothing like that,” Bucky reassures him. “Come on.”

Pietro follows Bucky through the crowds, winding their way between the villagers and Jabari to the oak tree. Wanda and Shuri are where he left them, working their way through a bottle of elderberry wine.  
“What’s going on?” Pietro asks, taking in Shuri’s gleeful smile and Bucky’s pensive look.  
“Shuri?” Bucky beckons to her, and she puts down her wine glass  
“So Bucky told me about your running about in the rain, chasing after storms?” Shuri clasps her hands together.  
“Yeah,” Pietro says dubiously. “So what of it?”  
Shuri gives Bucky a searching look, and he nods. “Go on.”  
“I met a Witch on my travels a few years back, when I went to the lands further north in search of isipho.” Her expression turns fond. “Across the sea, where in midsummer the sun never sets, and the sky is red and gold. You think it’s cold now? It’s nothing compared to there. They say in midwinter you can take a cup of hot tea and throw it into the air, and it will come down as snow.”  
Bucky shivers at the thought, though Pietro looks intrigued. “And there’s a Witch there?”  
“He harnesses the power of thunder,” Shuri opens up her hands, inviting. “He would very much like to meet you.”  
For half a minute Pietro doesn’t make a sound, then lets out a sudden, loud whoop, startling the people chatting nearby.  
“There’s a Witch!” He grabs Wanda by the hands, pulling her out of her chair. “Did you hear that? There’s a Witch!”  
“Yes, I heard.” Wanda gives him a patient smile.  
“And…” Pietro looks suddenly doubtful. “Would you be okay? If I went? Would that be…?”  
“Do you want to go?” Wanda asks, and the answer is clear on her brother’s face.  
“Bucky?” Pietro turns to him. “I can go, right? To see the Witch? I can go?”  
Whatever sorrow Bucky had felt vanishes at the joy on his face. “You’ll need a new coat.”  
Pietro lets out another joyful yelp, spinning Wanda around in a circle. He drags her off to join the dancers, her pointed hat bobbing and weaving through the crowd.

Bucky sits with Shuri for a while, watching the festivities while cradling a restorative cup of wine in his hands, savouring the tang and burn with every sip. As the night draws in the children are taken home to their warm beds, and those remaining help themselves to more wine and ale.  
On the cobblestones people are dancing, Pietro showing no signs of tiring as he spins his sister around in circles. Bucky catches sight of Peggy and Angie under the fairy lights sweeping around in a delicately performed minuet. Nearby Barton and the red haired poacher Bucky has seen on the edges of the forest stamp their feet and click their heels in an improvised gavotte, throwing their heads back and laughing. Up by the makeshift stage a group of Jabari are teaching some villagers how to dance, moving lightly on the balls of their feet as they shake their hips, while their friends laugh and clap along.  
Shuri offers him more wine, and he holds out his cup.  
“You look happy, brother,” she says, refilling their glasses.  
Bucky takes a drink, relishing in the sharp, sour taste. “I am. Never thought I would be, but.” He nods, smiling to himself. “I am.”

As if summoned, Steve appears in the crowd, casting around for something. He catches sight of Bucky and Shuri, and works his way through the press of bodies towards them.  
“You got all that talk of flowers out of your system?” Bucky asks.  
“Alstromeria,” Steve sighs. “Maybe freesias, I think blue and white.”  
“That’s a no, then.” Bucky thinks of the herb garden, bare now but for the tall stands of rosemary and lavender. Come spring it will be a riot of colour again. “I’ll make sure there’s room in the greenhouse.”  
Steve looks at him with such devotion, and Bucky feels his heart trip and stumble.  
“August,” Steve says, as if it isn’t something he had pondered over for weeks, for months. “That’s when we should do it.”  
“Yes!” Shuri yells, shaking her glass triumphantly. Bucky rubs his hand across his face, fighting the blush rising up on his cheeks.  
“Um.” He blames his flush on the wine and puts it to one side. “Sunflowers.”  
Steve raises his eyebrows. “Sunflowers?”  
“Yeah.” Bucky shrugs, pulling the brim of his hat down to cover his face. “I’d like sunflowers.”  
Steve nods, and holds out his hands. “Dance with me?”

Bucky takes off his hat, shaking out his hair as he gets to his feet. He is surrounded by people laughing and drinking and dancing, who don’t need him to be their Witch for a little while, and drops the hat on his chair  
His fingers slips easily into Steve’s hands, warm and rough, and Bucky lets himself be lead onto the cobblestones.  
A group of people are dancing a minaret, and Steve pulls Bucky in line with them, letting go of him long enough to take their positions. They stand face to face, a few feet apart in the line of dancers. One side bows, followed by the other, before they take two steps forward, lifting their hands up and pressing their palms together. Bucky can feel the steady rhythm of Steve’s heart against his chest, and wonders if Steve can feel the frenetic trip-trap of his own as they turn in a circle.  
“So is that a yes?” Steve asks as he steps towards Bucky and away again, their hands clasped between them.  
The next time Steve steps towards him Bucky catches him in a kiss before he can dart away again.  
“Yes.” Bucky pulls him away from the dance, turning them in circles along the periphery. “It’s a yes.”  
Steve wraps Bucky up in his arms, warm and loving, kissing him again and again. Bucky takes every kiss and offers his own in return as they rock back and forth, moving as one.  
Around them people dance and drink and sway to the music as snow begins to fall again, alighting on the branches of the oak tree and sparkling in the glow of the fairy lights.  
Snowflakes catch in the dark waves of Bucky’s hair and the blond scruff of Steve’s beard, and Bucky looks up at the fat white flakes spiralling down around them.  
One more dance, and one more cup of wine, perhaps, before they walk home. And Bucky will scatter little sparkling lights across the firmament, to shine like stars and light their way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Littleblackfox: Thank you to everyone on the rbb slack who cheered, kicked my ass and sent cute baby animal pictures, and to the fabulous mods for organising this event.  
> Thanks also to Trish and Jillian, I love you guys, Loeily for all the support to us both, and to my erstwhile beta Buhfly.  
> An extra special thanks with hugs and chocolate to my glorious partner WarlockInTraining, who made the most stunning art that caught hold of my heart and wouldn't let go. And then continued to make Even More Art! I love you, now come up with more things for us to do together!
> 
> WarlockInTraining: Aand that's it! It was so cool working with the lovely Fox! (SHE'S SUPER AWESOME)


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